


Burn

by PunkyNemo (TheVampireCat)



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: A look inside Daryl's head, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assault, Attempted Sexual Assault, Discussion of self harm, F/M, Language, Racing thoughts, Smut for later chapters, bethyl, discussion of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-02-03 16:15:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 110,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1750796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVampireCat/pseuds/PunkyNemo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I was waiting," he says, his mouth dry.</p><p>"Waiting for what?"</p><p>"You," there's no use denying it any longer. She knows, she has to.</p><p>When Daryl finds Beth, he has to let go of his demons, even if that means letting go of her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hell

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as a smutty little one shot and morphed into something else. It demanded more from me and I hope I did it justice. I really wanted to write a Daryl/Beth story where I could get inside Daryl's head and try and round him off, give a voice to the thoughts behind those lingering looks. I don't know if I succeeded but it's a start. So this is it. Take it for what it is.
> 
> Also trigger warning for Len and his attempted non-con bullshit at the beginning of this fic. Before A I had thought this was what they were leading up to what with their claiming and all, but obviously they all died before anything like that could have happened. Either way, it's not something I am at all comfortable writing about but figured considering who Len was, it would be in character. Weirdly it's almost like he took the place of Gorman in this fic and luckily meets the same end.
> 
> I have a soundtrack for this fic, mainly songs that inspired me. It won't make any difference to your enjoyment (or lack thereof) but I'm adding it here anyway and will add more for future chapters.
> 
> Sun and Moon - Black Lab  
> Save Yourself - Stabbing Westward  
> Hurt - Nine Inch Nails

She’s crying. He only realises it after the third time she says his name, the pleading in her voice, the hitch in her throat.

“Daryl,” her voice is loud enough to get his attention, loud enough to cut through the adrenalin-fuelled buzz that has his muscles twitching and his mind racing.

He turns to look at her. She stands in the middle of the ugly square rug, positioned like a chess piece.

“Daryl, please,” she says again. She moves slightly towards him, arms trembling, fingers flexing. He’s not sure it’s an invitation but goes to her anyway. No thinking, none of the dumbass voices in his head getting in the way. He just goes, pulling her into his arms, crossbow clanging to the ground as he allows her to wrap herself around him, while he breathes in the musty scent of her sweat, her dirty hair. He doesn’t care. It’s the best smell in the world. 

The past 24 hours have been hell. At least the seventh circle, maybe the eighth but Daryl doesn't know because he hadn’t been allowed to read _Dante’s Inferno_ as a kid. His old man had called it “pretentious college boy trash” and tossed it away with all his mother’s other books when Daryl was twelve. Made a huge fucking bonfire out of her collection while his Ma had cried into the spent cigarettes festering in her ashtray. 

So, no he hadn’t read it, but his mom had told him about it once, right before one of her religious episodes when she holed herself up in her bedroom with a bottle of Jack and prayed with all her being that God would take her away from his old man. 

And then she’d gone and died in a fire. 

Sometimes God has a shitty sense of humour.

Either way he knows the basics - she’d given him that much - even if his recollection was fuzzy. Souls in torment, fire and brimstone and gnashing of teeth, criminals assigned to various levels of torture depending on the misdeed. So he figures if hell is a real place - something he doubts - and there’s specific digs for murderers and sadists, then he’s somehow just run through it and come out on the other side. Not unscathed, not reborn, not rejuvenated. Just alive. And right now, that’s good enough for him. In fact it’s better than good, it’s positively, fucking fantastic with a goddamned cherry on top. Because there’s been a spot of heaven in this day of hell. No, more than a spot, a great big chunk of the divine. He’s glad he’s not a religious man, or he’d start calling himself blessed or something. He isn’t, so he won’t, but he can’t deny that by rights he should be dead, _they_ should be dead. And yet somehow they aren't, even though it didn’t make any sense, even though they should both be lying together in a ditch somewhere, bullets in their brains. A tangled, putrid final embrace. A fitting end to them and the world they lived in. 

When heaven and hell combine sometimes it spits out some crazy-ass shit.

He'd found her. 

Or, more accurately, Len had found her. That was hell’s little joke, its little kick in the nuts. 

Len. Fucking Len.

Daryl had been following Joe's group for three weeks, maybe a month. He couldn’t remember any more, time loses its meaning in the apocalypse no matter how many times old men in stupid hats wind their wristwatches. What he does remember was that he was looking for an exit of sorts when it happened, a moment to slip away from these post-cataclysm, whackjob cowboys. He’d known from the first day they found him that it wasn’t going to end well. Couldn’t end well. These guys, they were the worst kind of bad news before the world went to shit. Now the kind of bad news they were didn’t bear thinking about. 

At first, he’d figured he could handle it, thought they were like Merle. They weren’t. Merle was a pussy cat compared to them. Sure, his brother could talk the talk, but when it came down to it, Daryl didn’t think even he would have been able to walk the walk. And Merle was right, Daryl had always been the sweet one. No way he would have been able to keep up with these hooligans. Sooner or later some shit would have gone down and he wouldn’t have been able to stay quiet. Loneliness was one thing, but this? This level of depravity? That was another.

Thus, he’d been planning his own extraction, and the fancy-ass Atlanta house they were ransacking was as good a point as any to part ways. Not that he planned on a big farewell. Wasn’t looking for a goodbye card or a cake. Keep things simple, uncomplicated. Wait until he was on watch and everyone was asleep and slip off into the night, down the road, into the forest, towards the tracks. With any luck, it would be early morning before they noticed he was gone. 

At least that had been the plan. 

It didn’t work out. Not exactly. 

He was stripping a red fleece blanket from a double bed when he heard Len shouting that he had claimed something.

He’d ignored it at first even though Len sounded more excited than usual. Most likely it was something dumb, another cottontail, a doily, a deflated basketball. Who the hell knew what Len liked? The guy was whack. 

But when he heard a small shriek followed by a thud and Len’s increasingly agitated voice booming “Claimed! Claimed!” like some kind of mantra, things changed. It wasn't Len. Not really. He was just being himself, ranting and bitching like he could somehow make things the way he wanted them if he just shouted loud and long enough. Daryl knew enough shitheads like that. Hell, there were times he was one of them - the more noise you made, the bigger dick you had. So, no, not Len. But the shriek. Something about it. Something so familiar. And then a word: “Stop!”

And everything fell apart.

Details are hazy, in these situations they usually are. He's pretty sure his legs were moving before his brain was in gear. Pretty sure he threw himself down the stairs too. Doesn't remember running across the hall but does remember it was a big fucking hall. The only thing he was sure of was that voice. It had done nothing but sass him and call him out and needle him since the prison fell. It had sung him to sleep at night and opened his eyes and heart in the morning. It was her, it had to be and he hated himself for a second when he realised he hoped it wasn’t. As if there was another woman on earth that deserved whatever Len had in store for her. 

Sometimes, the apocalypse makes you play fast and loose with morality.

It had been a clusterfuck from the second he’d set foot in the lounge. 

It was Beth, he had to blink a few times and mentally slap himself to be sure, but it was her, clothes torn and filthy - that yellow golf shirt barely recognisable under the grime, cardigan gone, hair a greasy blond bird nest. But it was her and in a moment which he later identified as ridiculously whimsical, he thought she looked beautiful. 

She was Beth, it wasn’t like she could look anything else.

She lay curled up in a corner, next to a broken floor lamp, Len grabbing at her while she tried to shield her face. 

He ran to her, saying her name like a dumbass lovesick schoolboy, giving away his weakness almost immediately as she raised her head and hope flared in those big blue eyes. And it damn near killed him,

But not as much as her bruises, her scratches, Len's dirty fingers pressing into the pale skin of her arms, so tightly that the little meat she had on her bones bulged like a plumped cushion on either side of his hands. 

He remembers that he was shouting. He's not really sure what, but he knows he was. That's pretty much certain. He also remembers that he pushed Len aside and winced at the purple blooms the exact shape of Len's fingers appearing on her flesh. But he hadn't even touched her before he was wrestled to the ground. Tony, Harley and Dan raining blows down on him, dragging him to a nasty chintz couch, holding his arms, immobilising him. Shutting him down.

Len was amused, more than amused actually. He stood up slowly, taking his time to spit blood from his mouth, eyes twinkling as he swaggered over to Beth, snapping his hand against her wrist, pulling her to her feet and drawing her close.

"I _knew_ there was a bitch," his voice was gravelly, smug as he pressed his mouth to her hair, breathing deeply like she was his next meal. “No wonder you was walking around like a dead man. She’s a fine one Bowman. A real fine one. Maybe a little skinny but oh so sweet where it counts.”

She didn’t flinch as Len pressed a hand to her chest, his lips ghosting close to her neck. She didn’t do anything. She looked like she’d checked out, the way abused dogs do when it just becomes too much. When there’s no more fight left and they go away to some safe corner of their heads. A look that says “do what you want, I won’t fight you.” 

It broke his fucking heart.

But then Len grabbed her crotch, pressing a dirty palm against the faded fabric of her jeans. A hitching breath escaped her lips and there was a flicker in her eyes. He thought it was fear. Looking back he now knows it was anger. Rage.

He wrenched free, knocking Harley to the ground, stomping hard on Tony’s feet as he hurled himself across the room. 

He grabbed at Len’s hair, filthy hands closing on the even filthier matted strands, pulling back hard and knocking his head against the wall hoping to see it pop like an overripe watermelon and run down the paintwork in a red wave. It was the plan. Plan was shit. 

They were harsher the second time round, using the butts of their rifles and a tyre iron they’d picked up from an abandoned gas stop. A searing pain exploded in his left shoulder as the iron came down over and over again, bruising skin, spraining bone. He didn’t care. All he wanted was to erase that glazed look from her eyes, wipe the crusted blood from her skin, soothe the purple bruises marring her flesh. 

Maybe it took a while for her to realise it really was him, maybe she hadn’t had time to give herself that mental slap, maybe she only realised the gravity of the situation when she saw him go down under their boots but suddenly she was sobbing his name, shouting to leave him be, twisting away from Len’s grasp, fighting and screaming and biting. Feral, wild, but small. The smallest of the group. No match for a full grown man, even a cocksucker like Len. When he cuffed her she went down, almost immediately, head banging hard against the empty wall cabinet before she sprawled out on the floor.

Their eyes met briefly across the room. A moment that said nothing and everything as he thought back to their last encounter. The way she’d needled his feelings out of him, the way she’d even given him hope that they could have it, that she wouldn’t reject him. All he wanted to do was tell her now, once and for all how he felt, before it was too late.

Fact was though, it was already too late.

_(What change your mind?)_

_You, Beth. Always you._

As the blows rained down on him, he wanted to laugh at the irony that yes, he had found a way out. After all the time he’d been looking, this was the easiest way to check out. It should have been funny. But it wasn’t because he was leaving her behind. Another of hell’s little jokes, anything he touched turned to shit. She’d been drawn into the vortex of his cursed existence and now he was leaving her, alone and afraid. They’d abuse her and then discard her, if she was lucky. 

If she wasn’t, well... 

Vaguely, he was aware of Harley’s raised boot coming towards his face. This was it. This was the way it ended. He wasn’t afraid of dying, hell couldn’t be worse than this. The ninth circle was looking good right now, the ring for traitors, because that’s what he was. That’s where he deserved to burn for checking out on her now.

He just prayed they wouldn’t damage his brain too badly … so he could come back and eat them alive.

And then out of nowhere, Joe; telling them to stop. Ordering a cease and desist.

"We ain't animals, gentlemen," he said and Daryl tried to snort but a stream of blood erupted from his nose instead. 

Joe looked at him, eyes cool, mouth set but not angry.

“Look at you Daryl,” Joe’s voice sounded like he was admonishing a disobedient child as he pulled him to his feet and roughly shoved him back onto the couch. He sat down with a wet thwack, his left shoulder jarring, blood running down his arm and seeping into the ugly flower patterned upholstery. He suddenly felt absurdly worried about dirtying the furniture, although there wasn’t much that wouldn’t be an improvement on the baby blue background and cerise roses. Christ, there were even dogs on it, beagle puppies with goofy grins. Some people man, some fucking people.

“Gentlemen, I need everyone to just calm down,” Joe said evenly, sitting down on an overstuffed, yet equally ugly armchair across from Daryl. “Take a breath, sit your asses down and just _reflect_.”

“I claimed her Joe,” Len’s voice had a petulant edge. “But he tried to take her anyway. He broke the rules Joe. He knows the rules and he broke them.”

"Yes, Len, yes he did,” Joe agreed never taking his eyes away from Daryl. “But let’s all just take a moment here. Get our bearings.”

They sat in silence for a while, all eyes on Joe, waiting for him to say something, anything. For his part, Joe remained still, looking out the window at the dreary grey sky, ignoring them all, leaning on the silence drawing it out. Outside the cutlery barrier they’d hung around the house tinkled in the wind but inside it was quiet. Quiet except for her small, hitching breaths and Len’s heavy panting.

Harley shuffled. Tony scratched. Daryl seethed, watching Beth through bloodied eyes. She stared back, eyes locked on him as if he was some kind of answer, a blessing, a saviour. He wasn’t. Because God sure as shit didn’t answer prayers for Daryl Dixon.

Then, eventually, after what seemed like decades Joe looked up, his gaze drifting over each of them, barely registering Beth shoved into the corner, Len looming over her, watching her like some kind of rabid guard dog.

“Now, we know the rules. Claimed means claimed. That’s how things work,” his voice was even, measured, as looked Daryl directly in the eye. “Daryl, do you have a previous claim on this woman?”

Daryl spat blood.

“Daryl?”

“Yeah,” he said eventually, trying to keep his eyes on Joe, away from Beth and the hope that was written all over her face. “She’s mine.”

“You claimed her?” Joe asked.

“We were together before.”

“Before we found you at the roadside?” It was a stupid question. Of course it had been before they found him. What did they think? He’d been carrying her around in his backpack? And what? Decided now to let her out for air? Fuck these guys, fuck them with a bag full of salty dicks.

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Joe’s voice was oddly comforting and he turned to look at Len and Beth. “I think we’d all do well here to consider Daryl's point of view for a moment. This was his bitch. He’s had her, they were together and she belonged to him. So he sees her now. In his mind she's already claimed. By him."

"Aw, hell no Joe," Len said, dragging Beth closer. "I saw her first. I claimed her. I don’t give a shit if he’s had her a hundred times over. She’s mine because I claimed her. Those are the rules."

“Screw the rules,” Daryl growled.

"Yes, Len, yes you did," Joe agreed but the irritation in his voice was clear. “And she’s yours now. I ain’t disputing that. No one is. All I’m saying is that, in this case, there ain’t no reason to beat a man to death. Tony, imagine it was Lenore. Or what if it was Betty? What I am saying Gentlemen, is that Daryl ain’t breaking the rules. This is more of a property dispute. And Daryl, we can talk about your role in this group in the morning. We have a good thing here and I for one don’t want to lose it. You’re valuable, but you got to follow the rules man, ain’t no other way around it.”

Daryl looked up blinking away blood.

“But Daryl,” Joe said evenly, “This bitch here, she’s Len’s now. You gotta let it go. ”

It didn't take many more punches to subdue him, but it took a few.

***

Len was a strange cat. Long after Joe, Harley, Tony and Billy got bored and went to bed, he was still parading Beth around like she was some carnival prize at a long forgotten funfair. He gave her bizarre orders: “bring me that vase”, “break that picture”, “sit on the stairs”. It made no sense until you realised he got off equally on the anticipation than the actual deed. He liked the power, the ability to enforce his will, to scare her with her complete lack of autonomy first before settling in to show her what he could actually do to her.

For the most part Len’s show was really nothing more than childish taunts, more to piss Daryl off than anything else. Yeah, he’d eventually take it further but he had a hard on for making Daryl watch first. It was a subtlety Daryl hadn’t expected. But when he’d given it a moment’s thought it made some kind of sick sense. 

But it had to escalate. Daryl knew that. There was no way Len would allow himself to be the brunt of any limp dick jokes if he didn’t seal the deal. And frankly, there was no way other way this was going to end. It couldn't. These things, ugly and horrible as they may be, are written into the stars in a very specific way. It is what it is. It happens like it does.

The others had left Dan both on watch and to keep an eye on Daryl but chances were that a herd could take down the house before Dan would be able to tear his gaze from Beth. He’d done little more than tie Daryl’s hands and feet and pretty much left him on the couch while he got all leery watching the little spectacle Len was putting on.

It must have been around two in the morning when Len decided to rev things up a notch. He grabbed Beth around the neck and kissed her face, sloppy wet kisses that left a sheen of saliva on her skin. She recoiled and he laughed pulling out his knife and cutting her shirt off before forcing her to kiss him again, threatening to shoot Daryl in the head if she didn’t make it good. She did. She came through like a fucking champ but the disgust on her face couldn’t be disguised. 

"Oh this ones a peach ain't she? Sweet as freshly baked apple pie," Len sniffed at her as she flinched.

Daryl shifted against his bonds.

"You want a slice of my pie Daryl?" Len asked as he wrapped a hand around her neck. "You wanna taste?"

This guy. This fucking guy.

And that was when she put a knife through Len’s eye.

_(You gotta stay who you are)_

The problem was, Daryl realised later when he had a moment to think, people underestimated Beth, they always had. Sure, give her someone else's baby to raise, put her in charge of bringing up the next generation while everyone else messed about farming and running councils, but all hell broke loose if she suggested going on a run. 

Because then the shit would start. Maggie, Glenn. Even Rick sometimes. Never Hershel though, which was telling all by itself.

_"Oh she can't, what about the children?"_

_"Oh she doesn't know anything about guns."_

_"She'll slow us down."_

_"She'll hold us up."_

Yeah, so let's leave her like fucking Sleeping Beauty in a fucking ivory tower. Don't sweat it, the men will save her. Caveman style.

So she was small and slight, so she was young. So goddamn what? The meek shall inherit the earth and all that.

And that's why no one thought to frisk her for weapons. Sure Len was feeling her up but from his glazed eyes and slack jaw, he wouldn't have been able to find a rocket launcher if she'd strapped one to her ass.

So truth be told Daryl hadn't been surprised when she'd pulled his hunting knife - that goddamn hunting knife he’d spent ages looking for - out of her boot and driven it hard and fast into Len's eye. He tried to scream but the sound had been cut off abruptly as she gave the blade a vicious twist and withdrew it, his blood spraying from the wound and gushing out all over her face and bra in a messy red wave. 

This guy. This fucking guy.

Dan, never quick off the bat at the best of times, was still flailing around for his gun when she made it to the couch. As he stood to grab her, Daryl threw his head back connecting with the cartilage in Dan’s nose. More blood sprayed, a loud shriek as he lost his balance and Beth buried the knife in his chin, up through his skull. 

He could already hear beds creaking upstairs as she sliced through the bonds tying his wrists and ankles. 

She said his name and her voice was a little breathless. Mostly relief but something more, something he wasn’t sure he knew how to deal with right then. But he didn’t have to. There was no time. Not time for anything other than throwing her his vest and getting the hell out of dodge.

She grabbed Len's pack as they ran into the hall, slung it over her shoulder and he could swear he heard her whisper "Claimed, Douchebag" as she did. He wanted to tell her she wasn't gonna find nothing good in the bag. It's Len's after all. Probably got an ant farm or a half a bottle of self tan in there, probably both, he'd seen Len claim a Barbie doll once. Guy was whack. But he didn’t, just hoisted his crossbow and backpack, wincing as pain shot through his arm, and held out his hand to her. She took it and he hadn’t had the time to contemplate how much he's missed this, missed her. So he didn’t. He couldn’t because then they’d never leave and Joe would find them in a pool of dead men’s blood. 

Instead, he just twined his fingers through hers as they ran to the front door, down the steps, under the chain of cutlery and hubcaps and into the woods.

And they’d run all night. Thinking back, he doesn’t know how they did it. It was dark, they slipped, they fell, they collided with low branches and tripped over exposed roots. She was exhausted, he was wounded, but they hadn't stopped, not once, not even to take a piss or a drink of water. They'd just gone for it, ignoring the scrapes and the bruises, navigating the uneven terrain trying to put as much distance as they could between them and Joe, between them and the walkers haunting the woods, between them and anyone. There were times she wanted to give up, swearing that her legs couldn’t handle it any more, that she was too exhausted and even though his muscles were burning, his knees threatening to give way beneath him, he told her to shut the fuck up because there was no way on God’s earth he was losing her again and he’d carry her if he fucking had to. They both knew there was no way he could do that so she just kept up.

_(Sooner or later, we always run)_

The car was a lucky break, the luckiest since the prison fell. Beth saw it in the hazy dawn light, parked next to the railway tracks. A black Yaris, small and compact, a girly car, but it had a three-quarter tank of gas and a spare key under the licence plate. And as Daryl leaned down on the accelerator he had a wild thought, a crazy, messed up thought of Hershel telling him to look after Beth, to keep his girl, _their_ girl, safe.

He shook his head, _keep moving, don't let the stink of sentimentality get in your way. You just gotta go._ And he went. Voices roaring in his head over the adrenalin pumping in his veins. 

Sometimes the only way out of hell is through.

And through they went, the little car jerking along the gravel of the tracks, choking, grumbling and screaming its objections to his manhandling. He knew it wasn't made for this but he didn't care. He hoped the noise attracted more walkers, a whole herd of them directed at Joe. A herd that would tear them apart, destroy them the same way they’d wanted to destroy her.

He almost missed the road, only seeing it at the last second while swerving to miss a group of four walkers, two adults, two kids. A family group. He wondered crazily if walkers did retain memory somewhere, if somehow they stuck together in the groups they knew in life, the ones they were dimly drawn to. He shook his head. _Don't let the madness in, Dixon. Once it's in it never gets out, once it's in you start seeing chupacabras and hallucinating about missing family members and quoting books you never read._

He didn't need that. 

_Beth_ didn't need that. 

Initially he just wanted to get away, his focus completely on getting Joe off their trail, but when he hit the actual road and the car stopped wailing at him, all he wanted to do was drive until there was no more distance left to put between Beth and Joe. He knew he wasn't thinking right, they needed to find a place to stop, a place to sleep before the gas ran out. The car was a hell of a find and they'd need it again but every time he thought of slowing down, every time they passed a house that looked empty he sped up a little, telling himself just one more mile, just one more minute and they'd be safe.

He didn’t know how long they drove, it must have been hours, hours and hours and hours, but the gas light was blinking by the time she put a gentle hand on his arm. 

"Daryl, stop," she said softly. "Stop."

It took him a moment to snap out of it, to realise what had been going on, to remember that they hadn't said two words to each other, even though it felt like they’d been speaking forever. Even though he knew it was all in his head. His questions, his confessions.

"We left them behind ages ago,” her voice was steady but there was a catch in it. A catch that told him she wasn’t nearly as calm as she wanted him to think. “You can't drive with that arm."

"S'fine," he mumbled as the newly remembered pain rushed to his shoulder.

"Daryl, I got this. If you want to carry on driving, let me."

"S'fine," he said again.

"Daryl, I killed two men back there. I can drive a goddamn car," her voice was sterner, agitated.

He looked at her, her bloodstained face, her bruised arms, the way his vest gaped open and the grimy bra underneath. He thought it had once been pale pink, pale pink and girly, with a smattering of polka dots and cream lace. It was just a dirty smear now, a brown mess of Len's crusted blood.

"Yeah," he said, putting his foot on the brake. "Yeah, okay."

They swapped and she drove, slower than him, carefully, looking out for somewhere they could stop.

She asked once if he was okay and he'd grunted a response. He tried to ask where she’d been, what happened but she asked him if they could talk about it later. She was here now and that’s all that mattered. And he’d said _okay, that_ was _all that mattered. Ain't nothing in the world that mattered more._

It was past noon and drizzling miserably when she found a small gated housing complex on the outskirts of some town where rich, old people went to die. He’d sat mutely by her side, trying to make sense of the day, still not believing she was here, with him, alive. He wondered if this was some kind of divine trick and she was an illusion. She was hell’s real kick in the nuts.

"We can stay here," she said as the car came to a stop.

_(Maybe we can stay a while)_

He waited listening, a bird singing, the gentle pitter patter of the rain, the _gurglehiss_ of stray walkers. Her gentle breathing over the thrum of his own heart.

The silence stretched and he turned to her.

“Beth, I…,” he began not knowing where he was going or what he was going to say.

She looked at him expectantly. And her eyes were so big and so blue and so deep, that he swallowed whatever words may have come to him.

“Nothin',” he said shaking his head. "Nothin'."

And then he was all action. _Don’t think, don’t consider, don’t be a goddamn dumbass like you were the last time, just do what you do best Dixon. Just do._ He jumped out of the car, pulled the gate open and stabbed two lonely walkers on the drive. She drove in and turned the car to face the road and in that moment he wanted to tell her how impossibly proud of her he was. Sure, she’d killed two men, God knows how many others, she’d held her own under impossible circumstances but somehow the simple act of turning the car around spoke volumes more about her instincts for survival. Yeah, it was crazy and stupid and his priorities were really messed up but he couldn’t give a rat’s ass.

He bolted the gate. It wouldn’t keep humans out but it’d do against walkers and maybe he could find a padlock or a chain of some kind to secure it.

She climbed out of the car and stood next to him surveying the row of houses in front of them. Eight identical white terraced houses, opening out onto an enclosed communal garden at the back. He could make out a greenish swimming pool and a set of swings, a small barbecue covered by a tattered blue and green beach umbrella.

“Which one?” she asked.

He pointed to the one closest to the gate. “This one’s as good as any.”

She nodded, pulling her knife out of her boot, walking up the stairs to bang loudly on the front window. They waited a minute, but the house was empty and slowly they crept inside.

It wasn’t what you’d expect from houses like these. He’d thought it would have been fancier, maybe not as fancy as the ones he’d ransacked with Joe but not quite the dump it was. To be fair, it looked like it had been abandoned long before the world went to shit and never opened again until now. It smelled musty but not of death and rot and walkers which was a nice change. The only furniture was a sagging couch, an old stained mattress, a broken mirror and an ugly square black mat. Everything else from the cupboards to the grimy bathroom had been stripped, except for some plastic ice-cream tubs, which he somehow had the foresight to stick out on the windowsills to collect rainwater. Other than that there was nothing, not even an empty shampoo bottle or a tattered shower curtain.

In his periphery he noticed that she’d stopped in front of the broken mirror, eyes locked on the jagged shards that distorted her features into something monstrous and unrecognisable. If he was thinking straight he would have gone to her and pulled her away, given her a task to occupy her mind and hands. 

_(We all have jobs to do)_

But he wasn't. And that was when she started to sob. And when she said his name, he knew he couldn’t ignore her, couldn’t pretend she was just some girl having a meltdown. And that’s when he went to her. That’s how he ended up holding her tightly on the stupid square rug, how his arms had locked around her and nothing could have pulled him away. That’s how he remembered how good it was to be with Beth Greene and how he’d let the whole damn world burn if it meant keeping her safe.

_(We should burn it down)_

And now? Well now, he knows the hug has gone on for much longer than appropriate, even for people trying to deal with every demon they ever had inside them. But he doesn’t care. If Beth needs him, that’s where he is, if the gods deign that she should find comfort in him, then that’s what he’ll be for her. 

It's for Beth, it’s only ever been for Beth.

Eventually she pulls him to the couch. It’s old and broken on the one side but hell, at least it’s not blue chintz. Her crying has stopped, but her face is still stained with blood and tears. He holds her, even though his arm is killing him. His vest looks ridiculous on her and probably exposes more than it covers, but he likes that she’s wearing something of his so he doesn’t say anything, although eventually he lets go of her long enough to give her a spare cotton knit sweater from his pack. It was once a pale blue, now it’s a grimy grey but it’s cleaner than anything either of them have on. 

He lets her look at his shoulder after she insists. It’s bruised but he can move it and she uses some of the bottled water and a rag to clean the blood off him. He does the same for her, hands shaking as he wipes her face and neck, fingertips brushing her cool skin as he reaches her delicate collarbones before handing her the rag to clean further. He looks away out of force of habit when she changes out of his vest and her bra, although he suspects that this is really nothing more than an artificial show of modesty between them and one that will soon be discarded. His shirt is ridiculously big on her and she swims in it but it’s not covered in blood and the smell of himself on her does things to him he finds worrisome and exhilarating at the same time.

When she’s as clean as she will be for now she moves back next to him on the couch.

She rests her head on the backrest and smiles wanly, letting out a deep sigh. And he’s still not sure that she’s really here, that she’s back with him and he starts to worry this is a dream and he’ll wake up in a cold garage with Len claiming something or other out of his pack and this whole screwed up cycle will start all over again. He has a crazy thought that maybe he died and this is the waiting room, purgatory or some shit like that. And Beth is an angel, waiting by his side until his fate is decided. He wonders how he will fare. He guesses not well. Too many failures, too many broken promises. He’ll end up standing beside men like The Governor, Len … Merle. And all the good people, Hershel, T-Dog, Lori, Dale, Andrea, Sophia will be somewhere else, somewhere far away. And then soon Beth will be gone too. He’s destined to lose her over and over again.

He shakes his head, his thoughts are becoming fractured and crazy even for him. He feels himself being pulled into an abyss of despair and insanity, losing his grip one finger at a time as he tries desperately to make sense of everything. 

And then she’s there, like a goddamn lifeline out of his mind. She takes his hand in her own, fingers twisting around his, grip tightening and it’s like she’s reeling him in, pulling him back to land. He looks down at their laced hands. His, dirty and clumsy covering hers, small and delicate. She’s tiny and that makes him feel boorish, hulking, even though he’s neither particularly tall nor broad. 

"What happened Daryl? Why were you with them?" She asks and her voice is another thread to follow back to reality. 

He sighs and, meeting her eyes, suddenly he can't help but think of the day he found Bob. How he'd waved away their concerns that he didn't know them, didn't know the kind of people they were. He felt that way when he met Joe. Anything to not be alone. Anyone to fill that void. He told himself that what kind of people they were didn't matter. But it does matter. Like how it matters to cover a dead woman's naked body, how it matters to write thank you notes and remember that walkers were once people, people like him. People like Beth. 

He pulls out of her grasp to put his arm around her drawing her against him so that her head rests in the hollow below his shoulder. She's a perfect fit against him as she winds around him in that special Beth way, that way that makes him feel both like a terrified schoolboy and the biggest badass of all time. He wants to laugh at himself from a few months ago, the dumbass who barely managed to touch her elbow and tried so hard to stop his gaze from resting on the perfect flesh of her creamy shoulder. 

He drags her closer wrapping his other arm around her, resting his chin on her head, thinking he should kiss the dirty mop of hair before realising that he already has and that her hand has slipped under the edges of his shirt, resting against the sweaty flesh of his chest. His heart is racing and he knows she can hear it. 

The cat’s out of the bag and he’s fucked if he knows whether its an indoor or outdoor one.

"I was waiting," he says, his mouth dry.

"Waiting for what?"

"You," there's no use denying it any longer. She knows, she has to.

She does. The truth of it is in her "oh" like it was once before.

He waits. This is her chance. Her chance to untangle herself from him, from this inappropriate embrace where she's wearing no bra and a shirt so big the tiniest movement causes it to gape. 

But she doesn't, she just presses harder against him, turning her face so that her cheek rests against the flesh of his chest. He thinks she might have kissed him as she moved but he's not sure.

He wants to ask her again where she's been but he doesn't want to press it, so he runs a hand up her arm, across her shoulder and to the back of her neck where he fingers the downy strands of hair. She sucks in a deep breath and he thinks she’ll pull away. Part of him _wants_ her to pull away. But she doesn’t. She touches his collar bones lightly with the tip of her index finger and his skin tightens into gooseflesh beneath her hands. He can feel the heat rising on his face as his cheeks flush and then racing downwards, a mile a minute, to his groin.

He tries to shift, conscious that he has seconds before his body’s betrayal becomes plain to her, but she moves with him, oblivious of his intentions or discomfort.

He swallows, makes a show of looking out the window. It’s gloomy and rainy. No change then.

"You should get some sleep," he says and even as he says it, he’s wishing he hadn’t because he’s already anticipating the cold emptiness she’ll leave behind when she goes.

"So should you."

"Saw a mattress in the spare room," he tells her but she burrows harder against him and he knows there’s no way she’s missed his arousal. For a second he’s wildly embarrassed. The need to push her away and say something awful wrestles with his need for her to stay right where she is. But not very hard. Or very diligently.

"I'm not leaving you."

_(I won’t leave you)_

"All right."

He lets go of her long enough to grab the blanket from his pack and pull it around them. It’s thick and warm and she trembles against him as he covers her.

He’s tired and his body, especially his shoulder, aches. But he holds her, scared that if he lets her go, she’ll just be gone again. And this will all be a dream and he’ll be back with Joe and Len, raiding houses and fighting a losing battle against his demons.

She shifts against him and he gasps as her head bumps against his bruises and he knows he can’t do this for too much longer.

"Beth?"

"Hmmm?"

"I need to..." He makes a vague gesture at the couch, and grimaces as his muscles cramp up with the movement.

"Yeah," she says, scooting over as he lies down on his unwounded side. He waits to see if she'll balk and decide the mattress is a better idea after all but she doesn't miss a beat, stretching out next to him, pulling the blanket with her, head against his chest, legs pressed against his. He hesitates for a second not knowing where to put his hands but she snuggles again and takes his arm, draping it over her waist, lips fluttering against his skin. 

He pulls her a little closer, hand splayed on the small of her back, and she looks up at him and her eyes are enormous in the gray afternoon light. He stares back, waiting. She kisses his jaw once and then his cheek. When she moves to touch her mouth to his chin, he moves with her, ever so slightly so that his lips brush hers. And he’s already cursing himself for being such a damn fool, but she falls into him, allowing her mouth to linger on his, lips parting slightly before pulling away and locking that cool blue gaze on him. He stares back, afraid to move, afraid to even breathe, wishing he could find a way to keep his heart in his chest and not his throat. Wishing there was somewhere else to look other than her face, those pink lips, high cheekbones and cornflower blue eyes.

And then seemingly satisfied with what she has seen, she rests her head against his chest, planting a chaste kiss on his skin. And despite the fact that he can’t hear anything but the pounding of his heart as it pounds away like a freaking jackhammer on steroids inside him, it’s seconds before he's asleep.


	2. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, a huge thank you to everyone who bookmarked, left comments, kudos, just read it and thought "meh" or "fabulous", you guys have all been great and if I could give each one of you, your own personal Daryl Dixon or Beth Greene I would. Unfortunately, if I were to find either of them I'd have to keep them.
> 
> Secondly, I know I said I was going to go a bit smutty now and at the time that was my intention, however, a couple of things happened. Mainly that I wanted to be a little truer to Beth and Daryl, I wanted a moment to slow down. Also, I realised I needed to place Beth a little, position her in this story, add some perspective. 
> 
> So never fear, this will become smuttier as time goes on but I thought it more important to go with what works for the story and let it develop organically rather than force anything. I hope that is not too much of a disappointment to anyone.
> 
> This also has a soundtrack. Once again, it won't really add or take away from anything but it's nice to have.
> 
> Thanks for reading and once again, any errors, let me know and I'll fix 'em.
> 
>  
> 
> Soundtrack: 
> 
> This night - Black Lab  
> Stay - David Gahan  
> Bury me deep inside your heart - HIM

She wakes up to the sound of light rain, nothing more than a miserable drizzle - the type of rain that soaks you slowly, insidiously. Not real rain then, but just wet enough to piss you off. Outside the air is hazy, the colour of overcooked meat, grey and dull and, with a start, she realises it’s already dawn, a full 24 hours since she found that little car abandoned on the tracks, longer since she killed two men in cold blood. Longer still since others fell under the steel of her blade. 

She shakes the thought away. 

Daryl’s asleep, arm tight around her, rough hand gripping her waist, flush with her skin. She pulls the blanket higher over him, pleased to see that he hasn’t moved, isn’t sitting up, crossbow on his legs aiming at the door. It makes her sad that they’ve learned to sleep like that. Always alert, always ready to run, always fighting for their lives. 

He sighs, moves further back into the couch, head pressing against the corner where the arm- and backrest meet. She takes the moment to study his face, the lines of stress by his eyes, the firm, hard set of his jaw, the scowl he wears even in sleep. She wants to kiss him again, feel the warmth, the wetness of his mouth, lose herself in him. Lose herself forever. Fact was he surprised her earlier when he kissed her, when her eyes fluttered closed under his clumsy embrace and she felt that searing heat rise in her chest. But then he’s done nothing but surprise her since that night outside the cabin, the night that this thing - whatever it is - started burning on the ashes of his past.

It freaks her out a little that only a few short months ago she’d been so pissed that of all the people in the prison to get stuck with she’d ended up with him; emotionally stunted man-child that he was. She doesn’t regret it though, not one minute of it, not one bit because she knows that without those days of sniping and snarling at each other like an old married couple, they’d never be here, not like this. Not like now.

She breathes in his scent: leather, sweat, smoke. Blood. They’ll never get the stench of death out of their clothes, their heads, their lives. She doubts they even really smell most of the decay any more, it’s become part of the air, part of the world. It’s the one constant in this thing they call existence. 

He moves against her, says something unintelligible, a rough groan, hand tightening on her, arm heavy and she allows herself a moment to relish this, to revel in his warmth, his closeness. She rests her head against him, his beating heart, his gentle breathing. 

There's a part of her wants to go and investigate the other houses. A small part, but a part nonetheless. It’s obvious that this place was abandoned before everything fell apart and chances are the other homes might have more supplies. But, looking at Daryl, she doesn’t want to leave him. Not yet. If she's honest, not ever. On some level she knows this is a problem. But it doesn't really feel like one. 

She kisses his chest, the dent of his breastbone. He sighs against her, another garbled sound from his throat. She hopes the rest of his sleep has been more peaceful than this, more peaceful than hers. She doubts it though, his sleep isn’t often tranquil. They spent long enough together before for her to figure that out. He’d toss and turn, sometimes moan, often getting up before her watch was done and taking over, telling her harshly to get some shut-eye, leave him be, go dream about boys or sing or some shit. Write in that stupid-ass journal of hers. Initially she’d gone, happy to be away from the world and its horrors, happy to be away from him and his bad-tempered growls, his cruel sneers. But then everything changed. 

_(You don’t get to treat me like crap just because you’re afraid)_

Well, nearly everything. Except the way he slept. Still fidgety, still distressed. When they’d found the funeral home he’d been slightly better. Only slightly, while he tried to stay awake, sitting on a froofy, white satin chair after gallantly telling her to take the bed. He shifted back and forth, moved his too-long legs this way and that, even dropped the crossbow once or twice. Eventually, when she realised neither of them would get any rest she’d gone to him, picked up the Stryker and told him to get in the bed. She’d used her no nonsense voice, the sternest one she had. And he’d gone, grumbling and cursing and bellyaching like an old man bitching at the neighbourhood kids to get off his lawn. But he’d gone. And when she climbed in next to him, propped up on a continental pillow, crossbow aimed at the door, he’d looked at her long and hard before rolling over to face the wall. He hadn’t stayed that way long though. A few minutes and he was facing her again, reaching across the mattress to link his hand with hers. Didn’t look at her as he did it, as he pulled her fingers into his, stayed focused on where their skin touched. He was matter-of-fact about it too. As if this was just the way people slept. Brush your teeth, get your jammies on, say your prayers, take Beth Greene’s hand and sleep. And it hadn’t been more than a minute or two before she turned to him, free hand covering their linked ones and fallen asleep too.

And then there was the next day. The day of the white dog, the day of his confessions. 

The day the world proved it could still get a little darker, a little harsher. 

She hasn’t told him what happened. He asked before they fell asleep and she waved him away. Told him she was here now and that’s all that mattered. For the moment, that’s true. She’ll tell him eventually, but not now. Not here, in this place where they’re safe, where they’ve locked the demons out. She stiffens as an image of gnashing teeth flashes through her head. Gnashing teeth and blood as black as tar, barking dogs and gunshots. The panic starts to rise, a dark wave that starts in her belly and threatens to choke her from the inside out. Like it has done every night, every single goddamned night since she lost him. She gasps, squeezes her eyes shut and presses herself to him, fingers hard on his hip. His hand moves to cup her head to his chest, holding her while she trembles, while she bites her lip to stop from sobbing, until the panic ebbs and she can breathe properly, until her muscles stop buzzing and her body goes slack. She’s not sure how much he’s aware of, probably not much - his breathing is regular, eyes closed - but either way she’s grateful. Grateful for his closeness, his decency. 

She waits, waits until she can’t feel it, can’t feel the sting of the past few weeks, can’t hear the screams, the sound of flesh being ripped apart, bones breaking. 

Waits until all she can hear is the sounds he makes, steady breaths, beating heart, the slight hitch in his throat. 

When she’s calm again, for now at least - she knows it won’t be for long, it never is - she moves her head back to the armrest. He _is_ asleep, oblivious to the little panic attack she's just had, oblivious to the world. 

_One thing at a time Beth,_ she tells herself, _one thing at a time and you’ll make it. You’ll get through it if you focus on one thing, the thing you need to take the next step. It’s when you start thinking too far ahead, when you let the complications overwhelm you that it all goes to shit. That it all falls apart. Focus on what you need next. It worked for you before. Be logical, be practical. Be bold._

Thirsty, she disentangles herself from him, and slips across the floor to his pack, digging through it until she finds a bottle of tepid water. It tastes old and stale but they’ll have more later when the ice-cream tubs are full. If they find soap, there may even be enough for a bath or at least a wipe down. The idea of being clean is as enticing as it is foreign.

She goes to the window and looks out into the haze, the fog. There’s a walker inside the gate, one they must have missed when they arrived. It’s only one though, nothing to worry about. They can get rid of it later. Easy. Simple. Straightforward. One thing at a time.

Across the street, there’s empty fields and weak wire fences. Abandoned farmland, now dealing with the encroaching urban sprawl. She shakes her head, no actually, that’s wrong. Urban sprawl is a thing of the past, dying along with most of the people on the planet. The next step is for nature to reclaim the cities. She finds the thought oddly comforting. Maybe Mother Nature will find a way of removing the blight of walkers from her pretty face. 

Then again, maybe not. 

Her legs cramp as she shifts to sit on the windowsill. Sore from running, from driving, from sharing a bed that isn’t even a bed. A night she wouldn’t trade, not for anything. She’ll go back to him soon, to his arms, his embrace, but not yet, even though she misses it, she misses it so much.

She rests her forehead against the cold, clammy glass, mildly surprised by how calm she is now. Not only after what just happened but after everything. Today, yesterday, all the days since the prison fell and all the days before that. That’s not to say there isn’t a part of her that wants to be hysterical, to scream, cry, throw things, freak out. Part of her longs for that release, that cathartic outpouring of rage, of fear, of elation. But she holds it together. For him, she holds it together. Like he’s trying to hold it together for her. But the gnawing feeling is still there and she wonders when it will chew through her defences and she’ll just end up a goopy heap of tears on the ground somewhere. She wonders if Daryl will be there to pick her up again and she finds that even the vague thought that he won’t is enough to choke her up. She knows she’s still high from the last two days, still overwhelmed. This feeling of peace, uneasy as it may be, isn’t natural. It’s the calm before the storm as her Daddy used to say. She’s tried to be strong, tried not to let the insanity of the last few weeks get to her. She won’t have another breakdown. She _won’t_ be that girl any more. 

Absently she rubs the scar on her naked wrist. Her bracelets are gone, she had to discard them but now it feels like they were taken from her, taken even though they had no value to anyone but her. But then there’s a lot of stuff people have tried to take which have no value to anyone but her. She thinks of Len, his sloppy kisses, the smell of him, the way he rubbed against her. Strangely, that doesn’t make her want to cry. It makes her want to resurrect him and kill him all over again. She wonders if that's real strength, or if it’s bravado.

_(“I wish I could just change”_

_“You did”)_

A movement catches her eye, small and blurry in the bad light. It’s another walker, this one stuck in the fence across the road, flailing about like a scarecrow in a wind storm. They’ll kill it later, along with the one inside. One at a time. Simple. Easy. Straightforward.

Over her shoulder Daryl sleeps, lying on his side, arms in front of his face, knees drawn up. Always defensive, always ready. Beth sighs. It wasn’t meant to be like this. None of it was meant to be like this. 

_(That’s how unbelievably stupid I am)_

She longs for the prison, for her father, for Maggie, Glenn, baby Judith. They had found a kind of peace there, a solitude they won’t get again. Life just doesn’t give out second chances, not like that. Not any more. 

_You’ve got to look after what you have, otherwise you lose it. You lose it and you don’t get it back._ And yet, watching him, she knows that she has got something back. It may not be perfect, it may not be everything, but it may be the only thing she ever gets back in this nasty world they live in. It’s enough. He’s enough. 

She takes another sip of water before screwing the cap back on the bottle and returning it to his pack. You don’t leave your stuff out any more. You’ve got to be able to up and run at a moment’s notice.

_(Beth, get your shit!)_

The memory kills her. How eager he was to rush into the lion’s den, how automatic it was for him to want to sacrifice himself. Did he love her then, she wonders. Did he love her when he saved her? Did he love her when he risked everything for her? Or was that something he’d have done for anyone? For everyone? She doesn’t know. She wants to believe it was her, but she doesn’t want to lose who he is. The determination, the dedication, the devotion that makes Daryl Dixon Daryl Dixon. She wonders if he knows he loves her. If he understands what she hears when they speak. If he knows what he is actually saying to her. She thinks he does, even if he doesn’t have the words. 

The question is does she have the words? Is there any use for words of love in this new world? She thinks of Glenn and Maggie and decides there is. There has to be. 

He shifts under the blanket and she knows he’ll wake soon. She wants to be there when he does. She wants to be there for him for as long as this evil world allows them to live. 

This man. This crazy, broken, beautiful, ridiculous, frightening, fucked up man.

Thing was once you got through all the bullshit, the anger, the self loathing he’s remarkably easy to love. 

Easy to love. She rolls that phrase over in her head. Is that was he is? What she is? She doesn't know. She's never loved before. Maybe he hasn't either.

When she was younger and boys were just starting to register on the Beth Greene radar, the pretty little Southern belle with the voice of an angel, she thought that falling in love would be like an earthquake or a tornado. She longed for the day that she’d feel the earth move, rock her world, change the course of her existence. Well, the last part is right at least. The world has changed but that has nothing to do with being in love. But when she thinks of how she feels right now, in this moment, in this abandoned house with him, she’s grateful that love didn’t come like a natural disaster. Loving him is soothing, even if nothing else about him is.

“Beth?” his voice is raw, low.

She turns to look at the couch. He’s frowning ... confused, spooked.

“Yeah, I’m here,” she says going back to his side and sitting in the curve of his body. 

“Ok?” he asks.

“Yeah, just thirsty,” she says. “How’s your arm?”

He grimaces and rolls onto his back, “Feels like it’s been hit with a tyre iron.”

She smiles and puts a hand on his shoulder. She’s been trying not to think too much about the previous day, trying not to let the million possible scenarios of how everything could have gone down get to her too much. It’s part of that irrational calm, that denial of the chewing panic. She’d given herself permission to cry earlier, when he held her like she was the only person left on earth, and that’s done now. She won’t be scared for the rest of her life, she won’t let herself sink into despair, especially when against all odds they were together again. He’s here, bruised, scarred. But he’s here.

She shivers.

He opens the blanket.

“Come on,” his voice is a little strained and she hesitates. Briefly, there’s something in his eyes that looks like hurt. She doesn’t understand it at first, it confuses her, throws her off. That quick frown, the hard line of his mouth. 

She knows that look. 

_(Is that what you think of me?)_

And then she gets it. She gets him. She knows how he feels about her. He’s been obvious, hasn’t tried to hide it. But he’s Daryl and despite the fact that he sees things others don’t, she knows that until the words are out of her mouth he won’t give himself permission to even imagine his feelings are reciprocated. She forgets that he can’t look into her head, into her heart. 

And now, he’s trying to see himself through her eyes again and her hesitation is a sign, a sign of discomfort, lack of trust. Despite the kiss from earlier, the sleeping together, the openness, he still can’t find it in himself to believe in her, to believe in them. Part of her wants to laugh at how wrong he is, but she’s not stupid. Daryl is what the world has made him, Daryl is who he has to be to survive and somehow over time, that’s eroded his self-esteem, his confidence.

Wounded, he drops the blanket. 

She leans forward and touches his cheek gently with her fingertips, a silent apology. He flinches, flinches like she’s hit him.

“Don’t,” she tells him running her hand through his dirty hair, brushing it away from his eyes, letting her fingers trail across his forehead, tracing around an ugly bruise left by one of those assholes he was running with. Running with while he waited for her, running with to fill the loneliness. She wonders if he thought about her while she was gone. If she was in his head and heart when he laid down to sleep at night? When he was surrounded by those yahoos who thought he was like them. Or did he push her away? Pretend she didn’t exist and make himself numb enough to follow the only people he could find?

He breaks her heart. He always has. Even before. He’s like a beaten dog. Eager to please, eager to love, but so quick to fall back into bad habits, so eager to go to the first person who offers him a bone and bite anyone who’d give him something better.

“I’m glad I’m here,” she says.

He swallows and he covers her hand with his, stops her stroking his hair.

“With you,” she adds. Just to be sure. Just so he can be sure.

She holds his gaze, doesn’t shy away, doesn’t let him shy away. His thumb brushes against the hollow of her wrist.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, a gruff rumble of understanding and surprise.

_(Oh)_

It’s another of those moments, those moments they’ve become so good at. Those moments that last forever and ever and ever. And she can’t, just can’t any more. So she doesn’t. Doesn’t wait, doesn’t think, doesn’t stop and kisses him again, letting her tongue brush across his closed lips. He jerks, fingers flexing at his sides.

She sits back looking at him.

“Beth,” his voice is strangled and he’s moving to sit up but she puts a hand on his chest, pushing him back into the couch.

“Stop,” she whispers but she’s not sure if she’s asking him not to speak or not to move. “Just … stop.”

He stills and she makes a decision. Maybe it’s because she’s looking for a way to channel the latent hysteria, an outlet, a release. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t know what today will bring and lost opportunities erode the soul. Maybe she’s still reeling from the events of today. Maybe it’s just because it’s him and she’s not the blushing virgin everyone thinks she is. 

Yeah. Daryl Dixon. She’s noticed. Beth Greene sure as hell has noticed. 

She lifts the blanket and settles next to him again, into the curve of his arm, head against his shoulder. He shifts onto his side making room for her. The skin of his neck, shoulder, turns to gooseflesh under her breath and he lowers his palm to her hip, no prompting this time, no stiff fingers, no fluttering hands.

She can hear his heart, wonders briefly if he can hear hers, then stops caring as she looks up at him. At his blue eyes, the scepticism written on his face. 

_(You gotta put it away … here)_

She runs her finger down his cheek, thumb resting on the corner of his lips. Her kiss is chaste, at first, but this time he opens his mouth to her, responding to the wet stroke of her tongue. He tastes faintly of cigarettes and a lot like blood. 

He tastes like a man, not a boy, not a stolen encounter behind her Daddy’s barn, not a steamy session in a cold prison cell with a soon-to-be-dead lover. A man who’s lived in this world and become part of it. A man dirty, hard, tainted with the decay of it and the world before it.

Even so, him and his kisses are awkward, deliberate, wary. But he's also soft, slow, unconsciously deft of hand and mouth as his lips find their way to her neck. She wonders if he’s been faking all this time, if he’s more experienced than his thorniness has let on. But she doesn’t think so. He’s no Don Juan, no Lothario. He’s just Daryl Dixon and his hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses, thrilling as they may be, show he’s nervous as all fuck. 

It makes her want to soothe him, tell him it’s ok, that this is exactly what she wants, but under the searing heat of his mouth, she doesn’t trust herself with words, doesn't think she remembers any, if she ever knew any to start off with. 

She’s not sure what she’s doing when she puts her palm against his neck, where his skin is clammy despite the coolness of the morning, and then runs it over his shoulder, down his arm, to his knuckles where she interlaces their fingers over her hip. But it makes him lean into her, shift his attention from her neck to her clavicles and then up to her cheek. 

He’s eager now and she lets him press against her, feels his belly against hers, muscles toughened and moulded by a world too harsh to live in, the hardness of his cock against her thigh.

He's perfect in his own weathered way. Perfect in his tenderness. She stifles a smile at the thought. Who would have imagined that it would come to this? Her and him? The Disney princess and the redneck Robin Hood. It's like a subverted _Snow White_ , a twisted fairytale with teeth that'll eat you up and spit out the bones if you think on it too long. 

He kisses her lips again, long and deep and hard, hand sliding up between them to cup her cheek, tangle in her greasy hair. She can’t remember when she last washed it but he doesn’t seem to care, so she decides she doesn’t either.

“Missed you,” he whispers. “Missed your sass girl.”

She loves him fully in that moment. The feeling comes fast, unexpectedly, a swelling in her chest as her heart seems to burst. She's told herself she doesn't cry any more about the people she loses. But looking at Daryl half hovering above her in the morning light, she knows she'll cry when she loses him again. She hopes she'll go first.

It's almost certain she will.

_(You’ll be the last man standing)_

He kisses her again, one last time, before bowing his head to her shoulder and then drawing away to lie down again, arms tight around her. Her body feels liquid and boneless and she thinks if he lets her go she’ll just fall into the floor, become one with the house, a stain on the ugly black rug that no sane person would ever have spent actual money on. She touches his hip, holds it.

There’s a part of her that’s disappointed. Disappointed but relieved. She’d gone into this hoping for more, visions of sweaty, dirty sex clouding her brain but now she feels no reason to press any further, no reason to rush. They’re safe, he’s safe. It might be the end of the world but this? This is the start of something wonderful, the start of something good and pure and perfect and she’s not going to push that, not going to push him. 

One thing at a time.

They have all the time this no good world is prepared to give them.


	3. Genesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait, I had an unexpected and very difficult house guest (whose biggest issue in life was rationing my soap, _my soap_ , that I buy - I’m not even kidding) and then I had numerous pet-related emergencies. I’d also really rather take a little longer and make things as good as I can instead of giving you guys something I am unhappy with.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who is reading, who is commenting, leaving kudos, bookmarking and lurking. You guys have no idea how much your support means to me. No idea. This fandom is pretty incredible. And the people on this ship are amazing.
> 
> I hope you like this chapter, it wasn’t an easy one to write on account of me still trying to set the scene and get inside Daryl’s head (what a maze).
> 
> Please let me know if you find mistakes.
> 
>  
> 
> Soundtrack for those who are interested: 
> 
> She is the Sunlight - Trading Yesterday (this is like my number one Bethyl song/band, the feeeels just kill me)  
> Angel - Aerosmith  
> Something I can never have - Nine Inch Nails  
> Butterfly on a wheel - The Mission  
> Into my arms - Nick Cave

He doesn’t feel her slip out of his arms, doesn’t feel her go. Later he wonders how he missed it, how someone who sleeps as lightly as he does didn’t notice her up and leave. He remembers how she kissed him though, how she’d fitted to his body so perfectly even though she’s so small and he’s clumsy and crude and all thumbs. He remembers how he’d kissed her mouth, her cheek, how his lips travelled down her neck, how he could taste the dirt - the sweat - of her under his tongue. 

But he also remembers the voices in his head, how they raged and laughed - a maddening cacophony that drowned out everything, making Beth and her sweet kisses and her soft skin into a minefield of twisted emotions and blackened morality under his hands. 

They’d been fine to start off with. Usually, the voices came and went, depending on the mood or as Joe would have said “the general attitude of the day”. Always a little crazy, some recognisable like his ma and old man, Grandma Lila. Others less distinct, an amalgamation of school bullies, pretty girls and redneck douchebags he used to know. He’d been teased and tormented long enough to know how to ignore them. And it wasn’t like he actually believed he had people living in his head. In the cold light of day he knew that it was him. All his demons. All his fears. All his insecurities.

All him.

But there was a wildcard. 

_Isn’t there always?_

Because just when he managed to drown them out, just when he’d shut them up long enough to think, to breathe, to feel, just when he thought he was out of the woods and maybe, just maybe he could go on kissing Beth for a little longer, a few seconds maybe. An hour. The next century would do as well. He ain’t fussy. That was when the big guns came out. 

Merle.

Always fucking Merle

His crazy-ass brother’s voice lived in his head now too. Had since the day he’d found him turned, gorging on the guts of the dead. Had long before that too, if he was brutally honest with himself.

But he wasn’t. And he liked that just fine that way, thank you very much.

Because as much as he wanted, no, _needed_ , to deny it, one way or another Merle was his personal reckoning, the bogeyman hiding in the closet just when the movie should be over. 

The problem was it was Merle, not an unfriendly monster, not one that was likely to bite or claw or drag you back under the bed, leaving nothing but some bloodied fingernail marks on the floor. No, he was subtler than that. The devil on your shoulder, the one who sucked you in, who seduced you to come over to the dark side, who promised a twisted salvation where you could have peace, where you could revel in the depravity.

The one that told you fucking Beth Greene was the best idea ever and exactly what you should do. 

Which automatically made it into the last thing you should do. 

It was a fine line to walk and Daryl often found himself stumbling. Didn’t want to be his brother but making every moral question into a case of “What Would Merle Do?” made it hard to see things clearly. Because Merle would have fucked Beth. There and then. Hard and fast. Swift and sure. Wouldn’t have thought twice about it. 

And if he would have done it, it was probably a bad idea.

_A very bad idea._

He thinks of his Ma. He shouldn’t, but he does and it bothers him that she’s been popping up in his mind so often. She once told him something about fighting monsters and not becoming one yourself. Also something about an abyss but he can’t really remember all too well. He hated those days when she started quoting books and famous people and talking about the world outside of the Dixon trailer. Hated them because it always jolted him, threw him off when he remembered that his Ma hadn’t always been like this. Hadn’t always been a shadow, hadn’t always been dead inside. That she’d had a chance at a different life and bad choices and worse circumstances had taken that all away from her. Taken it and thrown it into that abyss of cigarettes and booze and pills. 

_It was a very clever man that said it, Daryl. That stuff about monsters. Cleverer than me,_ she said, _much cleverer than your dad. But not cleverer than you, my boy. Nowhere near._

His Ma’s grasp on reality had always been questionable. Very questionable.

He recalls the day perfectly, her bruised arms, the scratches on her cheek, his old man snoring away a drunken stupor on the couch. He’d been so angry, so enraged when he saw her battered shoulders that his ten-year-old self hadn’t stopped to think. Her bruises were all there was, they filled his entire world with their sickly purple hue and he’d run to the kitchen drawer, pulled out the sharpest knife he could find - now that he thinks on it, the knife probably wasn’t that sharp (nothing in the Dixon household actually worked) - and was halfway across the room before his Ma grabbed him, pulled him to her breast and rocked him while he cried against her stained nightgown that reeked of cigarettes and sweat. And that’s when she told him, when she whispered to him that he had to be the one good thing she’d done in the world. Told him it was too late for her, for Merle, but maybe it wasn’t too late for him. And she couldn’t - _she wouldn’t_ \- let her little boy, her sweet son turn into a monster. She just wouldn’t. She would keep him pure, flawless. 

Even then he knew she was talking trash, one too many sleeping pills, mixed with one too many painkillers, mixed with one too many bottles of Jim Beam. She could think he was different all she wanted but this was him, this was Daryl Dixon. He had Dixon blood. Tainted Dixon blood. It was as much a part of him as breathing. The only difference between him and Merle, him and his father was a few years. A decade or two down the line and that’s where he’d be. On the couch, sleeping off a high. Maybe even a battered woman crying over him like his Ma was now. 

But she’d asked him to promise her he wouldn’t give in, wouldn’t give up his goodness and he’d said yes to stop her crying, even though he didn’t really believe it. Couldn’t really believe it. It was like telling him to become president or find a cure for cancer. Telling him he’d be a millionaire and stop human trafficking while saving stray dogs off the street in his spare time. Impossible nonsense. 

Impossible. 

Nonsense.

But the truth of it was he tried. Every goddamned day he tried. He wasn’t Merle. If nothing else good came out of the last two or three years, it was that. But every now and then, when he felt his worst, when it seemed like the world was shitting on his head just because it could and that he was cursed, he felt like he was being pulled into that abyss. And that he was going to take everything close to him along for the ride.

Everything. Like Beth Greene.

Beth Greene who’d kissed him, slipped under the blanket with him and moulded herself around him, pulling him to her. Beth Greene who’d let him kiss her, let him put his clumsy hands on her, who chased most of the voices away with the sweetness of her mouth, the softness of her body. 

He wonders now if she’d been as buzzed as he was, if she also felt like her heart was going to jump out of her chest, if even the smallest sliver of her was scared of rejection.

Beth wasn’t the type of girl who got rejected. 

Since when did the fucking prom queen get turned down by the likes of well, him? He thinks briefly of Junie Day prom queen circa 1991 when he would have graduated - if he had graduated - thinks of her red hair and her green eyes and how they’d been friends once upon a time, before her family suddenly came into a lot of money, a _lot_ of money, and they moved out of the trailer park and into Roswell and suddenly Daryl Dixon wasn’t good enough to lick her boots. He’s mostly over it now. Mostly. Couldn’t blame the girl, not really. If he’d had the opportunity to leave he would have, but he liked to think he wouldn’t have left everyone else behind. Liked the think that if he saw Junie Day and her family out one day he’d have stopped to say hi instead of pretending he didn’t know them, like Junie did that day him and Merle had seen her in the Atlanta city centre, looking like she’d just stepped out of the pages of a fashion catalogue. He wonders where Junie is now. Last time he heard of her was a decade ago and she was getting married to some fancy pants lawyer. He wonders if she made it out before the virus hit, if she found some kind of safe zone or if she’s holed up in a house somewhere like this one, waiting for it all to be over. Of course, there’s always the possibility that she’s a geek, a biter, a walker. 

He shakes his head. No. He hopes Junie made it. Despite how she treated him, despite her unkind words the last time they spoke when she told him that redneck trash was her past now and how sick she was of him pining after her like a lost puppy. Merle had laughed when he heard, thought it was hilarious. Told him even white trash like the Days have standards, don’t want nothing to do with the Dixons. Don’t want Daryl Dixon sniffing around their redneck princess. Asked him how he could have been so fucking stupid as to think Junie Day, even at her worst when she was begging stale bread off his Ma while his old man was out, would have ever looked at him twice. _Aim high,_ he’d said sarcastically before laughing hysterically again. _Aim as fucking high as you can brother, ain’t no way that could ever work out badly for you._

And that’s what he heard Merle say when the rest of the voices were drowned out. _Aim high. Aim as fucking high as you can brother. Sure, Dixons don’t get the homecoming queen, they don’t get the prettiest girl in the room. It’s just all a big joke. So if this cute little piece of ass is giving it away for free, ain’t no reason to say no. Ain’t no reason not to make her beg for it. Give it to her brother, give it to her hard, give it to her good._

That's what he heard when he’d kissed her before they slept, when he’d woken up and invited her back under the blanket, when he moved his lips to her smooth neck, it was all there. That brash laugh, a leer so loud he could almost hear it. And he had to stop. Even though he really didn’t want to, even though he didn’t think she wanted him to. Even though he felt like he was dying when he moved off her and locking his arms around her was all he could do not to touch the rest of her, not to even think of putting his hands on her skin, her flesh, those meagre curves that were impossible not to notice.

She’d been sweet though, snuggling against him, and soon there was just white noise in his head, nothing serious, nothing he couldn’t handle. He didn’t know what to say, so he’d just held her, held her while he could still taste her on his tongue, while she ran gentle fingers through his hair, as the sweaty smell of her - of them - filled him and for the first time in weeks, for the first time since the funeral home, he felt himself relax. Maybe a little too well. Because he fell asleep again and when he woke up she was gone.

“Beth?” he calls as he shifts on the couch.

His shoulder jars as he sits up and it’s like an alarm for every other bruise, muscle and scab to wake up and stand to attention. He winces, closing his eyes briefly against the pain, putting a hand to his belly. They’d got him better than he thought, much better actually. 

He thinks of looking in the mirror and then remembers how much the jagged image freaked Beth out and decides against it. Won’t be much to see, just an asshole redneck looking like he’d been in a bar fight. It was a reflection he’d seen often enough before anyway. Didn’t need no reminders.

He calls her name again as he pulls his boots on, but the house is silent. And he starts to worry a little. He’s come down from the adrenalin high. He’s not thinking about hell and angels and purgatory and infernos and shit. It takes him a second to comprehend exactly how out of his mind he had been the previous night, exactly how far into Crazytown he’d gone. 

(Briefly, he wonders how far into Crazytown she’d gone and if that’s why she’d kissed him.)

But now, it’s better, he knows he’s not dreaming, well at least as much as anyone ever knows they ain’t dreaming. Yeah, yeah, he’s done the whole “what if I’m in a coma and this is just a long extended little mind adventure before I check out”. If it is he wishes the doctor would change his meds because it’s been one hell of a trip and he could easily do with a change to kittens and rainbows for the rest of his life. But he knows this is as real as he’s going to get for now. And he knows Beth is here somewhere, can still smell her on his hands, wishes he could still have her taste in his mouth. 

Standing brings a whole new level of pain. His muscles bunch and cramp, his legs buckle even though they feel like they’re in a vice and he has to grab onto the couch for a moment to stop himself falling over. His shoulder feels like a demon from that ninth circle he was so worried about has managed to claw its way into his flesh and follow him out of hell as his own little personal reminder of just how fucking close they came.

How fucking close.

Funny what fear can do, how it can push you, how it can override basic needs, basic human endurance and keep you moving through it. 

He’s still in shock though. The previous night and all its horrors still lurk close to the surface and no amount of endorphin-fuelled emotion will quiet them. He needs time, that’s all. Time with her, time to “reflect” as Joe said. Time to get used to the idea of not being alone and having someone he can trust nearby.

Another groan as he takes the crossbow and opens the front door, walks down the steps. Stands in the rain outside, blinking stupidly in the bad light. This weather is fucked up. Makes no sense to him any more, but then again a little bit of wacky weather is nothing compared to the fact that dead people are walking around.

Yeah, when you think about it that way, it puts a lot of things into perspective.

He scans the drive, noticing again how identical the houses all are save for different colour flower boxes outside each. The two walkers he killed from the previous day are still lying next to the gate but there’s another one now. A middle-aged man, dressed in a suit lying near the car. He knows he didn’t kill that one and he starts to panic. His empty stomach lurches - they really should have cleaned this place out better. They really had been idiots. Wild, high idiots thinking themselves untouchable in a world like this. 

“Beth?” he calls, “Beth?”

It’s cold, really fucking cold all of a sudden. She couldn’t have gone far, ain’t no way she would have run off on him, run off without him.

_Yeah, like Junie Day._ That was Merle’s voice, his stupid-ass voice.

He calls again, trying to keep the panic at bay, telling himself that she’s fine, she hasn’t disappeared.

_(Wouldn’t kill you to have a little faith)_

But he’s worried. Really fucking worried because he knows his mind ain’t right and he knows he’s not all that sharp right now and he doesn’t think he can take another round of God and his cosmic pranks that he likes to play on Daryl Dixon for shits and giggles.

“Fuck Beth!” He calls. “You here girl?”

Silence. Silence except for the pitter patter of rain, the hush of the wind.

This ain’t right, he tells himself, this just ain’t right. He did this once before. Ran all night for her before collapsing on the side of the tracks. But this time he has nothing, nowhere to go, nothing to follow. 

He shouts again no longer caring if there’s anyone, walker or not, to hear, and just when he thinks that’s it and he’s about to fall down in the rain only to look up to see Joe and Len admiring his crossbow, the door of the house next door opens and she’s there. Wrapped in a short blue robe, hair wet, droplets of icy water falling off her skin. 

He blinks.

She grins. 

He tries to grin back but his heart doesn't stop its rapid-fire thumping and for a second he thinks he's going nuts and this is Merle in the woods all over again.

“Come on,” she says. “It’s freezing out here.”

His voice is gone, so he does what she says because it’s easier than trying to explain anything or scold her for running off or hell, confess his love. Yeah, he doesn’t know where that last one came from. Except, you know, he does.

"I thought whoever lived there had moved," she says indicating the other house and he's starting to think she's real again. "This place has much more stuff."

He's not sure what counts as stuff but she's fine and that right there is a win. That robe though, he's not sure if that's a win or a one way ticket to hell and his gut clenches a little. 

The house is identical to the last one - kitchen, lounge and dining room downstairs and three bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. But it’s furnished in a kind of retro 1970s style that includes a wall mural of spirographs next to pinups of girls in poodle skirts ironing and serving beer and playing with cats. If there’s a seventies version of a dudebro, he lived here once upon a time. He can’t quite figure it out but then he’s really never understood people with money. 

He looks at the pictures on the mantle above a dusty fireplace. A middle-aged couple. He has a ponytail and a huge handlebar moustache while she is pretty and heavily made up with big eighties hair. They’re on a boat obviously somewhere on holiday, drinking rum. A photo from before, a happier time. He wonders why they moved on from here until he sees another photo of a young woman, a carbon copy of both of them wearing a Mercer University Bears jersey and it all falls into place. 

There might be no bodies here, no walkers, but suddenly the house reeks of death.

He knows she’s watching him as he takes it all in, as he looks around at the over the top furnishing, the lava lamps, the retro brown and yellow striped couch, as his gaze travels to the kitchen and the avocado green grocery cupboards in it. And he’s acutely aware that she’s standing very close and that her robe is very short.

He clears his throat and looks at her.

"Did you have a bath?" He asks and it's stupid, irrelevant and totally not what he wanted to say because what the hell do you say now, the morning after the night before? 

She grins again. 

"They have a well-point. Water’s cold and there’s no pressure but it’s water and it’s clean.”

So much for his brilliant ice-cream tub plan.

“And they have a gas stove.” She continues. “With gas."

“All these places?” he asks and she shrugs.

“Only looked at this one.”

“Wonder why that other one was such a dump?”

She shrugs again.

He humphs. 

He feels weird, jangly. She's smiling and upbeat and he thinks he should say something, anything. But she's in that little blue robe and he doesn’t want to look at her too long.

"There was a walker outside," he says because he can’t think of anything else and his mind is wandering to very dark places as he remembers her lips on his and the feel of her skin under his hands.

"Oh," she doesn't seem worried. "I killed it earlier, it must have been behind the houses when we arrived last night."

"Yeah, well we'll need to clear this place good and proper."

She nods and looks a lot less serious than she should.

"I found some food here. Some tinned peaches and pie apples. And a can of condensed milk."

"Make us sick," he says but his stomach rumbles loudly and he goes into the kitchen to where she’s laid the cans out on the counter, picking them up and pretending to read the labels. 

"Your shoulder ok?" She asks from the doorway and he makes a noise that means “yes” and “stop fussing” at the same time.

He chances a peek at her and that little robe that barely touches her thighs makes his breath hitch.

He looks away when she catches his gaze.

"It's ok Daryl," she says and it feels like she is humouring him and he’s embarrassed.

He makes that noise again and takes a swig of the condensed milk directly from the tin, messing down his front, staining over the blood already there. It's ridiculously sweet, like drinking melted sugar and his empty stomach lurches.

She frowns and it's the same look she gave him at the funeral home.

"Gross." 

And because he doesn’t know what else to do, he grins at her.

She rolls her eyes and he’s about to chuckle when she rubs her shoulder, the robe falling open slightly. There are dark bruises against her pale skin, so dark that he doesn’t understand how he didn’t see them last night when all she wore was his vest. Maybe he was still too buzzed, maybe he was still too focused on the fact that she was here and alive and it was a miracle the likes of which no one in the Dixon family has ever seen before nor likely would see again.

But there they are, big and black and blue, a line of them running across her shoulder and into her hairline. His gaze drops to her arm. Len’s handprint stands out raw and red above her elbow, another one on her wrist.

He hates it. It makes him think of his Ma. Again. And he _really_ doesn’t want to keep thinking about his Ma ... and how her shoulders and arms were always covered in purple bruises. His old man was nothing if not strategic, precise. Never bruised where you couldn't cover up. Was why he'd see his Ma in turtle neck jumpers in the middle of the Georgia summer. She claimed she was just a cold person. Fact was she was just a beat person, a punching bag. Old man Dixon was very clever, knew where the pressure points were, knew how to hit where it did the most damage. And sometimes, when he was looking for a fight, when he was so drunk and so high he’d prepare beforehand. Was like watching a fucking horror movie unfold in front of him. 

It would always start slow, slow and easy. 

The old man would be in a good mood, riding out his high, humming to himself under his breath, reading the papers, smoking a cigarette. 

“Hey Daryl, pass me that soap.”

That was when he knew, it was always the goddamn soap. Daddy Dixon was completely on board with the old soap in a sock cliche. Loved it like he loved his Jack, like he loved his whores, like he loved jerking off to violent porn and kicking the neighbour’s dog when they weren’t looking. 

Thing was, Daddy Dixon was also very clever. Daryl had never been his favourite. He’d always called him a “Mama’s boy”, a “sissy”, “a crying pansy ass little bitch”. Always felt Daryl was too sensitive, too nervous. Stupid fucking thing was it was his old man that put him on edge, his old man that made him fearful and timid. And his old man’s answer? Beat the fear out of him. As if that made sense. Fact was, it didn’t beat the fear out of him, it beat it into him time and time again. All it taught him to do was hide it. Be the first to lash out rather than the one to be lashed at. 

But the soap, the soap was always the easiest way to turn Daryl into the exact jangle of nerves, crying little bitch that his father said he was, because the soap in his young child mind made him complicit in whatever was going to happen. He helped create the weapon that was used to beat his mother. And that was something Daryl Dixon carried around with him that he’d never told anyone in his life. Didn’t think he ever would because once he started thinking about it the guilt was too much. Too crippling. In moments of clarity, he knew that his feelings were unfounded, that he had been a kid and his father hadn’t needed an excuse to give him a beating, so defying a simple request like “pass the soap”, even though it was loaded with everything that made life in the Dixon home a living hell, would be enough to stop him sitting for days.

But that didn't change the fact that when he passed the soap - “always the new bar Daryl, we don’t want the one that’s already been in the shower” - it felt like putting a gun in his father’s hands and aiming it for him.

The worst bit though, well other than the inevitable beating that would follow when he’d go and huddle in his cupboard a pillow over his ears, was the half smile and the conspirational wink his father would give him as that bar of antibacterial soap passed between them. Sometimes if he was feeling extra sadistic, he’d hold the sock open. Make Daryl push the soap inside. To this day he can’t stand to look at Dial in the supermarket, can’t stand anything that smells even close to it. 

Because he doesn’t see soap. He sees guilt. He sees bruises.

Bruises like Beth has all over her arms and neck. And it makes him just a little bit crazier than before.

She’s ok though. He thinks at least. She has to be. He has to tell himself she is or he might just lose all his shit and then she won’t be ok again.

“What?” she asks.

He doesn’t miss how her breath hitches as he tugs at the collar of her robe, nor how her skin prickles as he lays his fingers on her shoulder just below the blackest of the bruises.

“You ok?” he asks.

She nods. “It’s just bruises, Daryl, they’ll heal.”

He doesn’t like that phrasing, sounds too much like something his Ma would have said.

He clears his throat, briefly looks into her eyes, big and beautiful and cobalt blue.

“I want to kill him for you again,” he says, voice low, gruff, the words indistinct like he’s telling her a huge secret.

“He’s dead,” she says, reaching for his free hand with her own and twining his fingers through hers.

He nods, thumb tracing the edge of the marks. Her skin is soft, softer than last night and he suddenly wants to put his mouth to it. Plant a chain of healing kisses over those brazen bruises, those obscene reminders. He wants to see them disappear like butterflies under his lips, see her skin go pale under his hands. He wishes he had the power to make it all go away, to change everything that’s happened to her, to them. 

Her hand closes around his wrist and he looks away from her shoulder, her marks, her scars, to her face where her lips are slightly parted and her eyes are almost luminous.

She says his name and steps towards him as his hand slides to the back of her neck, where her skin is cold and damp from her hair. 

He wants to kiss her again, like he did last night, wants to feel her lips against his, her tongue in his mouth. Even though he knows it’s all kinds of wrong. 

He’s ok with being wrong.

But then she falters. A brief look to the side, a small bite on her bottom lip. And then she slips her arms around him, under his jacket, against his dirty shirt, fitting her head to his shoulder. He takes a moment with the disappointment before holding her too him, pressing her to his chest, breathing in that clean scent that’s anything but Dial, hands splayed on her back. She’s tiny, tiny and perfect and even though she’s not wearing much, she warms him and he knows he could stand like this forever. And that he could even find that latent religion hidden inside his genes and start thanking a higher power for every second he gets to stay.

“I missed you so much Daryl Dixon,” she says against him. “I think I missed you more than you missed me.”

He snorts and touches his lips to her hair.

“Ain’t no way Beth. Ain’t no fucking way.”

xxx

"There's coffee," she calls as he emerges from the bathroom later, dripping and cold but clean for what feels like the first time in forever.

He makes a sound in the back of his throat that means yes, thank you and something else he’s not sure of all at once.

She's found clothes for him. Dark jeans, some fancy-ass brand he could have never afforded in the old world, a black, long-sleeved vest, and a fleece-lined jacket, which she tells him is called “The Sheep” and he chuckles thinking that at least it’s not bell bottoms and platform boots which is what he would have expected from Mr and Mrs ‘70s Dudebro. Either way, it’s better clothes than he's seen in years and they all fit well enough, maybe a little loose, a little baggy. He’s thinner than he was before, no more room to store those extra cookies, no more fleshy belly.

She's standing by the window looking across the courtyard into the street when he comes down the stairs.

She's found clothes for herself too. Dark skinny jeans that cling to her, a loose turquoise vest. A grey hoodie lies on the couch, and her bra, wet but still stained with Len’s blood is hanging over a cold radiator. He doesn’t ask why she didn’t raid some of the underwear here. If there’s one thing Daryl Dixon knows about women it’s that the sizes on those things are confusing as all fuck.

She’s set some of the tins on a small side table along with a cup of coffee. Black and bitter and he wonders how she knew how he drinks it.

He sits on the couch eating some of the apples, the condensed milk was too much for him. Except for chocolate chip cookies, he never had much of a sweet tooth, never developed a taste for it on account of his father spending all their money on getting high. All things considered he’s surprised he’d ever developed a taste for anything because truth was there never actually was much in the way of food around.

Beth nurses a mug of tea in her hands, looking across the street.

“We need to get that walker stuck in the fence,” she tells him.

“Do it later,” he puts the apples on a side table. “Come sit here.”

He pats the couch and she turns from the window and shifts down next to him.

“You look different with no dirt on,” she teases.

He frowns. “Yeah. Drink your tea.”

“Should check out the other houses,” she says, curling her legs up under her. “See if we can find anything useful. Place seems pretty untouched.”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

She moves again and he catches sight of her ankle, fading bruises, a slight swell she doesn’t even seem to be aware of.

“How is it?” he indicates her foot when she looks confused.

“Oh it’s fine. Much better.”

He frowns, chewing on his thumb.

She sighs, stretching her leg out and into his lap. “Go on then,”

Her ankle is so delicate that his hand almost goes right around it as he grips it. She wiggles her toes, now bright with some glimmering pink nailpolish and he gives her what he hopes is a mock-annoyed look. Trust Beth Greene to ferret out a pot of nailpolish in a world gone to shit. 

It’s hilarious but doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he’s businesslike as he touches it, pulling her foot further into his lap and pushing the jeans up a smidgen so he can see properly, trying not to let his fingertips trail too far up her leg. She’s right, it really is much better now. He studies it, moves it gently, presses on it again, two fingers in the hollow above her heel. He chews on his bottom lip, eyes narrowing as he touches her toes. She breathes in sharply and he wants to ask if it hurts, if she can tell whether it’s the muscle or the bone or maybe just bruises, if she’s had any trouble walking, if she knows she needs to tell him if anything feels different. Bear traps are dangerous and dirty and he doesn’t want her to get an infection, even if it’s looking ok now, she needs to be careful, she has to be able to run and even the slightest twinge could be a problem and has she thought that maybe she should bandage…

“If I’d known you had a thing about ankles I woulda taken my socks off last night.”

Her voice isn’t loud but for a moment it’s the only sound in the world. She’s mainly confident, a slight tease in her tone but even so he can hear a waver in the words and his hands go still on her.

He might have been thinking about the latter part of last night more than he should but he also hasn’t forgotten how she cried into his shirt, how she held onto him, rattling and trembling against his chest. Neither has she, but he knows they’re both covering now. Not ready to talk about Len and Joe and before and after and the couch and the kisses. It’s not quite fake bravado, but it’s not genuine either. It’s a hint of something that could be, a promise come too early, a glimmer of the future. But it’s still not quite right, not quite now. There’s a part of him that wishes she’d just forget it, stop bringing it up, part of him rails against anything like the previous night happening again. But again, not very diligently. Regardless his face feels hot and he’s sure she can see how ruddy his cheeks have gone.

He glances over at her, trying to keep his expression serious, trying to employ some of that gruffness that’s worked for him in the past, but she’s smiling and her eyes look almost turquoise and despite himself he feels his mouth quirk up on the one side, a half grin, cautious, maybe even a little sly.

She touches her neck, the skin that was under his lips only a few hours ago. He remembers how he’d half-covered her body with his, how despite all the clothes in the way he’d been able to feel every curve, the gentle press of her small breasts, the heat between her thighs. His face burns hotter and she raises her eyebrows coyly.

She ain’t as easy to read as he thought and she could just be faking and pretending. There’s a part of him that hopes she is. That she’s at least a tiny bit as jangly as he is. A tiny bit as thrown off, a tiny bit as scared.

He pushes her foot out of his lap good-naturedly.

“You can check your own goddamned ankles from now on,” he says, picking up his pie apples.

xxx

Four days later he sits on the floor in the chill passageway outside her bedroom, crossbow close to his hand, head against the wall. They’re in house number eight, the final house in this bizarre chain of suburban living.

Beth insisted they went through the houses one at a time. 

“We’re both still bruised and battered,” she said, her feet wheedling their way back into his lap, his hand covering her ankles almost automatically despite having pushed her away less than a minute before. “We need to do it one thing at a time.”

So they had taken it slow, very slow. Frequently stopping for breaks, moving through a house or two a day, taking note of what was where, what they needed and what the could salvage. Each house had been a bit wacky in its own way. If not the style and the furnishings, then the clothes they’d found or type of food the people kept on their shelves. One was full of books with surreal Mexican-themed prints on the walls, another looked like the owner had either been a circus performer or a Liberace impersonator with a collection of feather boas all the colours of the rainbow. Beth had laughed out loud when she came across a bunch of hundred dollar bills tightly rolled up inside a plastic hair curler and hidden in a wicker basket under the bed.

He hadn’t. Because that’s exactly the way his Grandma had hidden her extra cash too, believing that she was about to be robbed by “them scoundrels Merle always hangs around”. Come to think of it she was probably right.

But of all the houses - they never went back to the first one - this one makes him the most sad. It’s full of doilies and frills and pictures of an old couple surrounded by children and grandchildren. It’s a bit _Little House on the Prairie_ , a bit _The Waltons_ , even though it doesn’t suit the house at all. Regardless it feels like more of a home than any of the other places so far. There are memories here, deep and wonderful memories, made by people he’ll never know, having lives he’ll never experience. 

It was also the only house harbouring walkers. 

They’d tapped on the window outside and waited and when nothing happened he went inside believing it to be empty.

It wasn’t.

The smell of rot told him that.

They’d found the previous owners standing in the kitchen, looking into the fading sunset. They were so still and so quiet that he thought they were already dead, that they were like that woman he’d helped Beth cover at the golf club of his nightmares. But they weren’t. They snarled as he entered the kitchen, tottering on brittle bones, skin flaking from their faces. He thought they almost looked as if they could be holding hands and once again he wondered if they retained the slightest shadows of memory. That Milton fellow, the Governor’s bitch or whatever he was, believed they did. Daryl wasn’t sure. And it didn’t stop him stabbing them both fast and efficiently, before Beth was even in the room. But it did make him question if they saw, if they felt or if their only desire was all consuming hunger for fresh meat. The last one, he decided. Definitely the last one.

He cleared them out quickly, trying not to let Beth see. The man may not look like Hershel but he was the right age and also had a big bushy beard and he didn’t want her eyes filling up with tears.

Even so, he’d been surprised when she said they should stay the night. They’d been sleeping in the second house, the 70s man cave since the first night, but she said they could do with a change and she wanted to stay here. It seemed a strange choice and then he realised that the furnishings probably reminded her of the old farmhouse she grew up in. Probably made her comfortable.

They’d gone to bed at the same time, but as he had done every night so far, the minute he detected her breathing from down the hall, he eased himself off his mattress and moved to sit outside her door. It wasn’t planned, wasn’t decided on beforehand, but he’d found himself doing it almost out of force of habit. Stand guard over her because he never wanted to let her out of his sight again. Knowing that she’s there and safe meant more to him than the few hours of restless sleep he’d get anyway. He guesses that in the old world this would be considered creepy, but it’s not the old world any more and he’s beyond caring. 

It’s Beth. It’s always been Beth.

He stretches, cracking his neck. The pop is unnaturally loud and it echoes a little. He’d kill for a cigarette, but he smoked his last one two days ago, when they were going through house number five, when the miserable drizzle had let up to give way to just plain freezing, icy cold temperatures.

He doesn’t like the cold, never has. Wasn’t much of a fan of the heat either but at least he was used to that. But he’s wondered often if cold isn’t actually the answer to all this. Not that the cold will kill the virus or anything, just that the walkers tend to slow down when the temperature plummets. Last winter some of them even froze to the ground outside the prison and he’d used them for target practice with Michonne. He grins remembering how she couldn’t even shoot them when they were absolutely still. Woman was useless with guns, probably worse with a crossbow although he hadn’t offered. She didn’t get it, never would. Although he’s pretty sure katanas aren’t his thing either. 

Each to their own.

When Michonne eventually did an elegant twirl, more like a dancer than anything else and lopped a head off, they'd chuckled. He feels a small twinge about it now.

_(Killing them isn’t supposed to be fun)_

Beth’s right of course. It ain’t. But there ain’t much fun to be had any more.

He pulls on the strap of the crossbow so that the arrows don’t stick into his ass and the metal scrapes loudly across the wooden floor.

He hasn’t really given himself time to think, to dwell. He misses his people. Rick, Carl, Michonne, Maggie, Glenn, Carol. Thinking of Carol chokes him up a little and he closes his eyes.

_(You gotta stay who you are)_

Yeah, but do you? What if you were once a family man, an office drone and then you turned into a psychopath?

What if you were once a sheriff’s deputy and you turned into someone who’d shoot your best friend dead over a woman who never really wanted you in the first place?

What if you were once a grieving mother and then you killed innocent people for the greater good?

The betrayal still smarts and he tries to push it away. Feels bad for even thinking it. It ain’t about him. It _so_ ain’t about him. There’s a level on which he gets it, understands it. There’s no level on which he likes it. And despite it all he believes that’s the same for Carol too. Difference is, there’s a shitload of levels between where he could have justified it and where she did.

A shitload. 

He’d like to think it would have been different if it was one of them. If it was Glenn or Maggie or Carl. If it was Beth. But that makes him feel worse. And starts bringing up all sorts of moral questions that his Ma would have told him he was clever enough to answer, but he really wasn’t. He didn’t realise how complicated the apocalypse can make your life. And it sucks all kinds of balls.

“Daryl?”

He looks up. Beth stands in front of him, wiping the sleep from her eyes. Her hair is messy and her sweat pants hang low on her hips.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice a little low, a little cracked.

“Nothing.”

Frowning, she squats down in front of him and he doesn’t want to look at her, her bright hair, the naked flesh of her shoulder where the bruises are fading, the sharp hip and the curve of her waist where her top is ruched up.

She takes his hands in her own. He doesn’t mind, doesn’t flinch. It’s comforting, this familiarity they have. He’s found himself touching her a lot lately, more than necessary. A hand on her arm, her shoulder, his knee against hers as they sat on the couches or the floor, while they eat. Every now and then she would hug him too, usually when they’d found something good, like food or warm clothes or shoes in her size. The hugs are brief but not infrequent and he wonders if this is her way of touching him, her way of showing him how she feels without the defiance she displayed that first night. He finds it comforting, it makes some of his rough edges feel smoother and he finds the voices in his head stay quieter. They don’t talk about it, this thing between them, they don’t ever try and recreate that first night again. He tells himself they ain’t that familiar, but the truth is he ain’t that confident. And the thought of kissing her again, while terrifying, is never far from his mind. He just hopes that when he touches her she knows what it means. His thigh against hers, his hand on her hip.

“Daryl?” she asks again and, even in the dark with only a little cold moonlight for illumination, he could get lost in her eyes.

“Is this why you’ve been so tired? Do you do this every night?” she asks and he looks at her feet and those silly pink nails and he wants to ask why she isn’t wearing socks, those tatty teddy ones she likes so much because they’re thick and thermal.

He nods and wishes he was anywhere and nowhere else at the same time. She wasn’t meant to know he kept watch at night, was supposed to think he went to his own bed and stayed there. That was the decent thing to do. The good thing to do. The thing that people like Rick and Glenn would do. This, this here, sitting outside her room while she sleeps because he so damn terrified that she’ll be gone when he wakes up. That ain’t decent. That’s a little crazy and a little messed up and a host of other shit he doesn’t want to think about.

“Daryl, you have to sleep,” her thumbs ghost across the back of his hands and his fingers tighten around her. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.”

“I’m serious,” she says.

She stands, tugging him with her, pulling him to his bedroom. He grabs the strap of the crossbow as he goes, but she takes it away from him and dumps it on a white painted chest of drawers next to the bed.

“You must be exhausted,” she says.

He wants to say he’s dead on his feet but that seems inappropriate, so he frowns at her.

“You ain’t gonna tuck me in Beth,” he tells her as she pushes him towards the bed, with it’s brown feather duvet and fleece blanket.

“No, and I ain’t gonna read you a bedtime story either,” the retort is a little sharper than he expected. “Get in.”

It’s that voice again. That stern voice of hers. The one that says _I might be five foot nothing and weigh 100 pounds soaking wet but I will beat your ass if I have to, so bring it Bitch. Bring it._

He listens. Ain’t no help for it. Nothing to be done. So he listens.

And then she walks to the other side of the bed and slides in next to him and it’s his turn to ask what she’s doing.

She looks at him across the pillows. She’s not covered and he can see the curve of her bosom through the thin material of her top. And he feels Merle stirring somewhere in his mind.

“Figured we’ve done it before, need to stop being so childish about it.”

He’s about to answer but she’s matter-of-fact when she carries on.

“So, you wanna be the big spoon or the little spoon?”

He snorts and she smiles.

“Hope you don’t snore Greene,” he tells her. “And don’t you go stealing the covers.”

She nods, mockingly stern - aye aye captain - and he wants to kiss her, but he can already hear Merle starting to laugh, so he lies back instead, concentrating on how he’s comfortable for the first time in weeks. 

She watches him for a moment as he takes her hand under the covers, and then he sees her eyes slide closed and soon she’s breathing heavily. He likes the sound, so close, so intimate and he wonders if he could just lie there all night listening to it.

But he falls asleep minutes later.

And he’s the big spoon.

xxx

They stand outside surveying the houses. It’s cold and she’s wrapped up in at least four layers but she’s still stamping her feet.

He doesn’t know what they’re looking for just that this was brought on when he swore up a motherfucking storm in the cold shower this morning. She’d asked if he knew how to get the gas working and he’d said he could give it a shot because Tyreese had shown him a thing or two when they fixed up the prison. So she’d taken his hand and dragged him outside into the sharp wind, which turned her cheeks blotchy and left frosty droplets in her hair.

She tells him this little complex looks like a Lego village and he nods because he never had Lego as a child and while he understands the principle he doesn’t understand the fuss. 

That kid Patrick back at the prison seemed to like it though, was always sitting around building spaceships and houses and shit. It makes him wonder if Beth, Maggie and Shawn had Lego when they were kids. If Hershel and Annette sat around watching their group of yours, mine and ours playing with the little brightly coloured blocks on a blanket on the ground. He wonders if little Beth had a big messy ponytail with a braid back then. The idea chokes him up a little, too many reasons to go into, but it makes him sad and happy at the same time.

“Which one?” she asks.

“What do you mean?” he’s cold too and he can’t feel the tip of his nose. And he really wants to get inside with her again.

“Which one do we stay in? We’ve been through them all. We know what we need. Now we have to figure out which one to stay in. Otherwise you’ll have to fix the gas for them all.”

“Yeah, ok.” He hasn’t really given much thought to staying, not to anything beyond raiding these houses really. Fact was the idea scared him after what happened the last time he suggested they stay somewhere. He doesn't like the idea of repeating the same mistakes over and over again.

On the other hand, there’s Beth. And the prospect of staying here with her in a real house, with real heat, maybe even some lights if he can hold it all together with chicken wire and good intentions, doesn’t seem like an opportunity that’s going to come around every day.

“Ok,” he says again.

She blows on her hands as the wind whips at her hair. “So which one?”

“Don’t matter.”

“It does matter.”

“Which one do you like?”

“I want to pick the right one.”

“Beth, it ain’t like we got a mortgage. We can move if we don't like it."

“No we can’t, it has to be right.”

“Ok.”

She looks around, eyes wide, brow furrowed, biting her bottom lip, which is already turning purple. He doesn’t get why this is so important to her, but it is, so he goes with it and lets her stomp around in the cold, freezing her ass off as she does. 

She’s hilarious in her own sweet way. Practical and logical, yet utterly breathtaking and ignorant of it all.

“What your favourite colour?” she asks all of a sudden.

He debates saying green just because he knows it will piss her off and she looks so very serious. But he says blue, the colour of her eyes.

“Ok that’s number seven.”

“What do you mean blue is seven?”

She points to the cerulean flower box and he nods. That’s the one with the books and the strange art on the walls. The one that looked like it belonged to a young couple just starting out, although why they’d decided to put down roots here is beyond him.

"Ok, number seven then," she takes a deep breath and suddenly he can tell she's nervous and he smiles because it's kind of endearing.

She walks up the steps to stand on the porch and then turns to look at him, windblown hair framing her pale face.

And she's beautiful.

"Welcome home Mr Dixon," she says reaching for the doorknob.

"Hey wait," he says coming up behind her and in a moment that he can only imagine later was complete and utter insanity, he slides his arms around her, hoisting her legs up, ignoring the still fresh pain in his shoulder.

She laughs and holds on, linking her arms around his neck.

"What are you doing?" She asks as he carries her into the house and he knows nothing will ever be the same again.

He grins down at her.

“Gotta be right, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> The quote Daryl couldn't remember was obviously Friedrich Nietzsche's:
> 
> “Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster... for when you gaze long into the abyss. The abyss gazes also into you.”


	4. The Lion's Den: Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okie dokie, I know this has been a very long time coming, but this chapter and the one that follows have been insanely difficult to write because well, I suck at writing tension and anything that involves action. It was stopped and started four times and I think this is about as good as this chapter is going to get. Be kind.
> 
> I promise there will be a lot more Bethyl after this chapter. I realise some might think this is a little Bethyl-lite.
> 
> As always thanks to every single person who has been reading, reviewing, following, leaving kudos. It really has made me very happy and I hope I am not disappointing anyone.
> 
> As always I do not own anything but lordy after seeing the Emily and Norman pics from Comic Con I wish I owned them.
> 
> Soundtrack for this chapter:  
> How soon is now? - The Smiths  
> What do I have to do? - Stabbing Westward  
> The sinner in me - Depeche Mode

“Glenn, wake up Glenn! Wake up!” It’s Maggie’s voice, somewhere in the fog of his mind, grabbing him pulling him out of his dreams. Dreams of happier times. Dreams of the farm, the prison. Not dreams of this cold and smelly boxcar where he’s wedged on the corrugated floor between Maggie and Tara.

Groaning, he rolls over, causing Tara to shift a little but not wake.

“What?” he asks before he’s even ready for the answer. It’s too early, too cold and too shitty in this nightmare to wake up. He’s almost angry. Feels like Maggie cheated him or something. Sleep longer, less time to worry about what the shitheads outside are doing, less time to hear the muffled cries and the flames of that barbecue roaring over the Georgia winter. Less time to smell that seared meat. The smell that nauseates him even as it makes his dry mouth water.

“Glenn?” her whisper is desperate and he opens his eyes, blinking in the half light, shivering involuntarily against a gust of cold air that seeps in through the rusted metal. They don’t have blankets. They were never given any.

Livestock don’t need blankets.

“What?” he asks again, more ready this time but not really ready enough. He’s still feeling a little pissed and hopes she hasn’t woken anyone else in this godforsaken pit. Let some of them escape to oblivion at least. Until the final oblivion of course. None of them want to escape to that.

Her eyes are big and she’s dirty, really, really dirty. Livestock don’t need baths either or proper ablution blocks. Livestock live in their own filth, they shit where they eat. They don’t need sunlight and clean beds because once you fatten them up, they’re off to the slaughter. Well unless you plan on breeding them, but even so they still don’t need anything more some murky water - water that’s full of leaves and dirt and insects - and a few handfuls of feed. Powdered milk and dried corn. Occasionally some dirty vegetable peels. Yeah, it’s not _food_ , it’s _feed_. Feed, that’s making Maggie really sick, so sick she barely eats. Fact is it’s making them all sick but she seems to be taking it the worst and even now in the bad light he can see her skin is clammy, grey, a horrible pasty sheen of sweat on her despite the chill of the early morning. 

Even so, he thinks she’s beautiful. Always has. Always will and he can’t stay mad at her for waking him up. He’s ashamed by his irritation. This could be their last day together, when anything could happen and they could be torn apart again on a whim. 

He takes her hand, squeezes it.

She squeezes back, a small relieved smile even plays on her lips for a second before her eyes turn hard again and she glances up from their linked fingers to his face.

“Glenn,” she tells him, her voice a low, urgent whisper. “We have to get out of here.”

“Is someone coming?” he asks, eyes darting over to where Rick is sitting at the opposite end of the car, Carl’s head in his lap. Rick never seems to sleep. And he isn’t now. He’s watching, planning, waiting. They’re all waiting even though they’re not really sure for what yet.

Maggie looks confused for a second, really confused. And it throws him off because it’s a straightforward question and he’s not sure why it wouldn't have a straight answer.

“Maggie, is someone coming?” he says again, more insistent.

“No, no,” she says but she sounds uncertain.

“So what’s going on?” he asks. She’s freaking him out and he doesn’t like it. She’s not prone to this. She always has words, she always has answers. She doesn’t speak in riddles. It’s what he loves about her. How she’s direct, to the point. Straightforward.

_(I’ll have sex with you)_

Jesus, Glenn, not now, he thinks, squeezing her hand hard.

“Maggie?” he tries again.

She shakes her head and it’s like she’s trying to get the cobwebs out of her brain, “Glenn you don’t understand. We have to get out of here.”

“I know Maggie,” he touches her arm gently. “We’re working on it. You know the plan. We just need time.”

She bites her lip, looking over at Rick and Carl, across at Michonne and Rosita, Abraham, Eugene.

“It has to be now,” she says and he frowns. This really isn’t like Maggie. Not like her to freak out, not like her to have a meltdown, especially not now. Now when they’ve been here for as long as they have. When they’ve had time to process, adjust even to what is going on. It doesn’t make sense that now, on this freezing morning no different from all the one's before, she’d suddenly lose it, suddenly be hysterical when she’s kept calm for so long.

He touches her cheek gently. It’s an affectionate gesture but it’s also to test the heat or her skin. 

“It’s ok Maggie,” he tells her, even though it’s not. Even though her skin is hot and wet and yet also feels like paper.

“Glenn, you don’t understand,” she says again and he starts to think her fever is worse than he thought, starts to wonder if she knows what she’s saying or doing. 

“Ok Maggie, explain it to me.”

She does. 

She really does and he wants her to stop talking and carry on at the same time. Even as the shock seeps in and the colour drains from his face, so that his grey skin matches hers. 

If he felt cheated before, cheated out of a few snatches of sleep, he doesn’t have the words to describe how he feels now. _Cheated_ does not even begin to cover it. This is nothing compared to what he felt when Maggie woke him too early. Nothing. He feels like something has been taken from him, something he’ll never get back and never experience again.

Tears prickle in his eyes as he fights the urge to scream, to rage. It’s a tough fight. This one against himself. Harsh. Where winning means losing and vice versa. He’s not sure he’ll ever know what side of him won. Doesn’t care to.

Regardless, he forces himself to breathe deeply, to breathe in the disgusting scent of the effluvia in this car, to just let the thick air in and out of his lungs while he pushes away the hysteria and wrestles his way back to reality, whatever reality this may be.

Closing his eyes, he kisses Maggies fingers, also hot and clammy, wrapped round his own.

“Ok,” he tells her. “Ok.”

He stands, helping her up, extracting themselves from this tangle of sleeping, snoring bodies without disturbing anyone, without pulling anyone else back into this thing they call life. Let them sleep a while. 

Lord knows, they all need it.

Rick looks up as they approach him, hand in hand. His eyes are glassy, a hard ice blue and he’s grizzled, hairy, dirty, more bear than man. Michonne was right, his face really is losing the war. Glenn wonders how much of his mind is too.

“Hey,” he says, voice gruff from the morning.

“Hey,” Glenn answers.

“What’s up?” he strokes Carl’s hair gently, a gesture Glenn suspects he wouldn’t dare when Carl is awake. It’s fatherly, something from the old world, an inherent kindness and affection that only a parent could really understand. It’s one of those things that no matter how old Carl gets, no matter how big, how tough, how hardened he becomes, he’ll always be Rick’s little boy, always his son that he had dreams of playing baseball with. Of taking to games, of teaching to drive. 

Drive a stick maybe.

Rick strikes him as the kind of dad who’d want his kid to know how to drive a stick. He guesses Carl’s going to have to learn soon anyway. Not like there’s any law against driving underage any more. In fact it’s more a necessity now than ever. This is a new world after all, an ugly one where you teach your kids to kill walkers before they learn to walk themselves.

He thinks of Judith and then of Beth and all the people they’ve lost and he realises this is going to be harder than he thought and, for a second, he wants to back out, he wants to keep their secret, not let anyone else intrude. But he looks at Maggie and she smiles and he knows he loves her more than life, like she deserves to be loved and he won’t let her lose anything else ever again the way she lost her father and sister. The way they’ve lost Daryl and Carol and Tyreese. Karen.

“Rick,” he says bending down so that their faces are close, his voice hushed. “We need to get out of here. And we need to do it now.”

XXX

The street is dark and quiet as he sits in the car outside the doctor’s rooms watching, waiting, listening to the sounds of the night, listening for the brush of hobbling feet, the groan of dead men. But there's nothing. Silence. Silence and the smell of death. Silence except for her voice echoing in his ears.

_Come home to me Daryl Dixon. Come home._

The seriousness of her words amplified by the hardness - dare he say _coldness_ \- of her eyes.

She hadn’t wanted him to go. 

She’d been adamant about that. Adamant. He should stay. Wait for the morning and she’d go with him. They were a team remember? Didn’t he know that? Isn’t that what they decided? Agreed on?

She was right. They had. No denying that.

But her coughing had become so bad over the past week, so very, very bad and all he could think about was the flu and the prison and how if she got sick they were both screwed.

It started out slow. A little chill, she said, just a cough, a blocked nose. She said she was getting better, still claimed she was weeks later when they’d gone through the cold and flu meds they found in the houses. Gone through them all. No more cough syrup, no more Sudafed, no more hot toddies and lemon-flavoured drinks that tasted nothing like lemon. 

He knew it before she did. She wasn’t getting better. Even though she said she was fine, it was just a cold, just a chill and she’d be good soon. Right as rain, she said, right as rain.

Yeah, what his Ma said the night she set herself and everything else on fire.

_Don’t worry Daryl, don’t worry my boy. Mama’s gonna be right as rain after she has a lie down. Nothing for my boy to worry about. Tomorrow we’ll go for ice-cream and play in the park._

And then she’d closed herself and her bruises and her friend Jim Beam up in the bedroom and he never saw her again. 

Still saw Jim though. Saw Jim a lot when his old man was taking a belt to him, saw him a lot when there was no food in the house, saw him even more when the old geezer sold his Ma’s opal bracelet that her Grandma gave her on her deathbed. Was a little windfall for Will Dixon, that bracelet. Didn’t use the cash to buy anything good though or fix anything, pay off his debts. No, he used it to buy Jim. Jim and whores and a couple of skin magazines that Merle would steal when the old man wasn’t looking. 

He still fucking hates that his old man did that. Still fucking smarts, ‘cos his Ma loved that fucking bracelet. Told him that one day he was going to find a girl with eyes as blue as those opals and she was gonna love him so hard and his Ma was gonna love her too because Daryl would choose the perfect girl, the best girl. And then he could give her the opal bracelet because that's where it really belonged. Not with Mama and her leathery arms, arms old before their time, ravaged with cigarette smoke and too much sun. Too much Jim and way too much wine. 

_No,_ she said, _it belongs on the wrist of your girl, your pretty girl who’ll love you like you’re the only man in the whole world. Your pretty girl that you’ll treat right. Treat good and proper, like a lady. Treat her..._

He stops.

Yeah, he doesn’t want to think about that right now. His Ma and her ramblings, his Ma and her pain. His Ma and her bracelet. His Ma and Beth. Because then he’s really going to go back to Crazytown. Gonna get himself caught up in all the shit from before and he already burned that the fuck away. No call to let these wraiths rise from the embers any more. No call to bring anything from the past into this new home - number seven with the cerulean flower box - that they have now.

‘Sides, what his blue-eyed girl needs are meds, what his blue-eyed girl needs is for him to be making her godawful citrus drinks and putting a cold compress on her head. To be holding her while she tries to sleep. 

Yeah, that.

Hold her while she sleeps. 

In their bed. 

The bed they now share.

He thinks maybe there’s a part of him that should feel embarrassed about it. Ashamed maybe. But there ain’t. And he guesses that in itself makes him ashamed. But it really doesn’t. And he’s given up trying to wrestle with it. Given up looking for reasons to feel guilty.

He’d tried to do the honourable thing, the decent thing, when they moved their shit into the house a month ago. After carrying her

(across the threshold) 

inside, and getting a kiss on the cheek that he hadn’t responded to but felt all the way down to his toes and back, he’d taken his stuff to the spare room, dumped it on the bed. His intentions had been good, righteous even.

Path to hell and all that. Yeah, he knows. Intent ain’t magic. 

It started out ok. Started out decent. He thought she would be shy about discussing sleeping arrangements. He certainly was. Wasn’t no good reason in the world to sleep in the same bed. Sure, there were flesh-eating monsters outside and sure, it was probably safer and warmer now since it had gotten so, so, so cold but there wasn’t a good reason to actually sleep in the same room, let alone the same bed. Not really anyway. 

Not to say that the nights he’d spent snuggling with Beth Greene were not the best nights of his life. They were. Hands down. Even if he finds it hard to admit. Wasn’t another night in his life that even came close. But getting into bed with her, just matter of fact and all? That seemed forward, presumptuous.

Indecent.

And he was decent, he decided. He was one of those good people Beth kept talking about.

She hadn’t said anything when he went to the spare room, just watched him with those big blue eyes, while she stripped the bed in her room and changed the covers and he was grateful. Grateful she didn’t press. Grateful she left him be. 

Told himself that he wasn’t going to sit outside her room any more, wasn’t going to be paranoid and delusional and that she would still be there in the morning. He’d work it out, he’d be fine.

But when he was supposed to go to sleep, once he’d made sure everything was locked up tight for the hundredth time, once he’d checked and rechecked the chain he’d found for the gate, walked the fence and added another cutlery barrier to the porch outside and he finally got into bed, he couldn’t.

He laid there in the dark, tossing and turning. There was no wind, no rain, no shuffle of dead feet outside even though now they were too far from the street to hear it. Just silence, silence that made him twitch uncomfortably, silence that seemed too loud and too tangible to be real. Silence that filled you up and drained you out all at once.

There was nothing. Not even the sound of Beth’s breathing.

He didn’t like it. He felt itchy, too alert, prickly. And the urge to get up and sit outside her room - again, paranoid, deluded, frightened out of his fucking mind - was undeniable.

And that was when Merle had started up again.

_What you want Darylina? You wanna tap that ass? Yeah you do. Yeah you do. C’mon go make ol’ Merle proud._

No, he told himself, no. It wasn’t like that. Not like that at all.

Sure, Beth was beautiful, fucking heartbreaking. 

But it wasn’t like that.

It wasn’t like he looked at her and wanted to bang the shit out of her, fucking take her like she was a piece of meat. Wasn’t like he got off on the idea of getting it on with a young, pretty girl like her. That ain’t it at all. 

_So what is it brother? You wanna hold her? You wanna kiss her? You wanna make sweet love to her with rose petals and candlelight? What is it?_

Merle again. Always fucking Merle. Always demanding explanations. Always hanging around like the devil on his shoulder. Always uncovering that deep, dark part of himself and using it.

But not this time. Not this time because he had an answer. The only answer.

_It’s Beth, it’s always been Beth._

He’d waited for the onslaught, waited for Merle’s crowing, his old man’s snigger, his Ma’s quiet sobs. But they didn’t come. In fact quite the opposite. They were silent. Silent as the sounds that filled up the house, the world. 

Silent as The Lord as He watched His creation go against the laws of life and death as set out since the beginning of time.

Silent as death.

They were all doomed anyway.

Funny thing though, funniest thing ever, in that moment none of it, none of it seemed so terrifying, so real. 

He’d tossed the covers aside, sat on the edge of his bed and before he had time to talk himself out of it, walked out of the room and down the passage.

And ended up in her doorway. Again. Empty-handed. Words backing up behind his teeth. So many of them but not one he dared voice. 

She was still awake, most of the room in shadows, the smallest halo of light from a flickering candle. He’d kept his chin down, eyes jumping between her and the floor. Waiting for her to say something, anything. He didn’t care. Even if it was to tell him off, send him back to his bed, out of the house. Tell him he should crash at Mr Dudebro across the path. But she’d smiled and even in the half glow from the candle casting shadows on her skin he couldn’t believe how clearly he saw her, how real and tangible she was to him in that moment. 

It was a fucking miracle that she was here, something that doesn’t even compare to any water into wine party tricks. 

(He needs to stop with the mocking though, he knows she doesn’t like it.)

Wordlessly, she'd pulled the covers open on his side of the bed. 

_His_ side.

“Was wondering how long it would take,” she said. “Glad it was sooner rather than later.”

He’d needed a moment to process her words. He hadn’t thought that far. Hadn’t thought that maybe she’d be ok with it, maybe she’d invite him in as casually as asking if he’d like a beer or a snack. Hadn’t had anything planned for that scenario. He’d kinda just been leaving the big decisions up to her, trusting her to make the right call and somehow know what is was that he needed. 

She’d never been wrong before.

“Come on,” she said, snapping him out of his thoughts long enough for him to understand the invitation in her words. “It’s cold. Get in.”

So he did. Padded across the floor, like a bad dog, wary, frightened, skittish and shifted down onto the mattress next to her as she tossed the comforter over him. He hadn’t reached for her. Not immediately anyway. Just lay there on his back pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, while he focused on blocking Merle out. Merle and his dirty words, Merle and his dirty laugh, Merle and his dirty thoughts.

And after a few minutes she’d touched his elbow gently and asked what was wrong, what he was thinking.

He hadn’t answered, hadn’t want to. Was content to let the silence stretch like a rubber band to the point of breaking. But when he heard her take a breath in anticipation of continuing to talk he opened his eyes. She was propped up on one arm, looking at him. Like she always did. Like she could see right through him to the other side and was absolutely 100% fine with everything he was showing her.

“Is this ok Beth?” he’d asked, knowing she got the fullness of his question.

He waited for her to launch into a long explanation, knew she had one just waiting in the back of her mouth, in that brain of hers that overthinks almost as much as his does.

But she surprised him - he doesn’t know why. Happened all the fucking time now.

“Yes,” she said simply and blew out the candle, snuggling down into the blankets, body turned towards his.

He lay there a few minutes longer, waiting for Merle, waiting for his crowing, waiting for him to say something filthy, something to ruin this. But it never came. His head was clear, silent. For the first time in years. It was temporary, he knew it was just a matter of regrouping and rearranging tactics for self-sabotage. Knew it wouldn’t last. But he’d figured he’d take it if it meant he could have this. Deal with the fallout later when he’s sharper and brighter and maybe his shoulder felt a bit better.

He’d turned to face her, rested his hand on her forearm just above her wrist.

“Ok.”

She looked at him long and hard like she did the first night and even though there was no light he had seen the fire in her eyes. She kissed him then. Chastely, briefly but it had still made his heart pound, made his cock twitch and his breath catch. 

She settled back down next to him. Watching him, eyes locked on his. He hadn’t looked away, not once until she fell asleep, their hands linked on the pillows.

He’d known it back then. He knows it now.

_To go to Beth Greene you must go with perfect courage._

And now almost a month later he knows that apparently you need it to leave her too.

Even if it is just for a run to pick up some cough syrup.

He sighs, closing his eyes briefly before looking back at this suburban dispensary, doctors rooms nestled in this street of oversized and overpriced houses. 

It hadn’t been a fight. Not exactly. But he guesses his idea of fights is a little different to you know, normal people. There’d been no screaming, no throwing things, no name calling, no threats, no violence. But she hadn't been happy about him going alone, not at all. She didn't like being apart, she said. She was matter of fact and all. Straightforward. To the point. Daring him to disagree. Said she did nothing but worry the whole time because when he drove out the gate, it could be the last time she'd ever see him. And then what? She’d be stuck not knowing what happened to him, maybe never hearing from him again. Besides it was too late at night, too dark out, he wouldn’t be able to see properly, the weather wasn’t great, easy for walkers to sneak up on you even if you’re Daryl _fucking_ Dixon. 

And he agreed. It was a bad fucking idea going off alone. But it couldn't be helped. She’d be coughing up a lung soon and he was damned if he was going to lose her to the common cold. Not that he thought she was going to die from a chill (hadn’t even wanted to entertain the idea of the prison flu even though he did … briefly), but it would slow them down if they needed to move, it would give away their position if she coughed and sneezed. And frankly, he didn’t like seeing her like this. Because even though she said she was fine, she was suffering.

Truth was he also felt a little responsible because it had taken him an age to fix the shower. Apparently he’d picked up less from Tyreese than he thought he had and they’d needed batteries and pipes and all sorts of shit they couldn’t find in any of the homes. So they’d been showering cold for too long and he’s pretty sure that’s how she got sick.

For the past week, she'd been telling him not to worry, it couldn’t be helped, but he did worry and he could help so tonight when she woke herself and him up coughing and sneezing, he’d climbed out of bed and pulled his jeans and jacket on.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Gonna get you some meds for that Beth. You can’t carry on like this.”

“I’ll sleep in the spare room,” she offered. “Don’t mean to disturb you.”

“Ain’t that,” he said pulling on his boots. 

“I can’t come with you,” she sat up against the pillows.

He thought that was the end of it. Thought she was just stating a fact, didn’t even bother to reply really. But she wasn’t done. 

Nowhere near.

Because that's when it started. Told him he was risking his life for nothing. That if he just waited for tomorrow, when it was light out and warmer, she'd go with him. He told her no. Her eyes had narrowed and her mouth set in a firm line which reminded him of how she’d looked at him in those early days after the prison fell. The days that he’d disappeared into himself and raged silently at her for no other reason than she was there. And she could be raged at. And it made him feel better to resent her rather than resent himself. Eased the burden. Even if it didn’t. Yeah, he ain’t proud of those days. Not at all, not in the slightest. Treating her like crap, the few barbed words he’d said only to hurt her, stop her, bring her down. And it felt like it had come full circle, because even though she wasn’t being like him, even though she was still trying to communicate in that same old Beth way that involved reasoning and openness (this was still new to him because he sure as shit had never seen people communicate like that before) he could see she was pissed. Merle would have said she was on the rag but that was Merle's answer for every emotion any woman showed unless it was delirious happiness at seeing his dick. 

But Daryl knew Beth. And that wasn’t fair. He figured like _all_ Merle’s other advice on women, it wasn’t fair. She was sick and that made her vulnerable, protective and a little fearful, quiet, maybe even a bit introspective. She’d been talking about Maggie a lot, about her father, Rick, Carl. And not knowing what else to do he'd hold her at night, wrap his arm around her belly while she rested against his chest, struggling to breathe and he'd try and find some dumbass story to tell her to cheer her up, to make her laugh, and then realise he didn't have many. Even the funny ones, like the poison ivy and his ass had a dark overtone that he didn’t want to bring into the bedroom, their bedroom, this unconsummated haven they’d made. So he'd try some lame jokes. He didn’t really know how to tell jokes though and they’d always fallen a bit flat, but Beth would laugh anyway, maybe to humour him, maybe just because she’s Beth and there ain’t no one sweeter in the whole world.

Tonight before they'd gone to sleep he told her "a pie walks into a bar and the bartender says I'm sorry, we don't serve food here."

She'd laughed in a kind of exploding snort that both hilarious and kind of scary and then she'd turned over and kissed his jaw before snuggling into him, head on his chest, small shoulders shaking a bit as she coughed. He didn't mind anymore that she could hear his heart pounding throughout his entire body. He was less certain about his arousal pressed against her stomach but even that didn’t make her move.

He’d started to think that there's a part of her that likes this, likes knowing what she does to him, likes him to know what he does to her. It's not pressure, it's confidence, confidence that he'll eventually come to her as a man does to a woman. 

But that was the last thing either of them was thinking of as she followed him down the stairs only a few short minutes ago, listing the reasons for him to stay, to wait. She told him it didn't feel right. That almost stopped him. Almost. Because Beth’s instincts were good. Very good and she didn’t say shit like that lightly. But then she’d sneezed again and he’d waved her off asking if she was psychic or something. Her jaw hardened and her eyes got colder then and even though he hadn’t said it he was sorry. He promised he'd be quick, squeezed her hand gently. But she pulled away and went to sit on the couch with a cup of herbal tea. 

He’d picked up the keys and then stood in the hall like a dumbass, waiting. Thing was, he didn’t go on runs alone often. They’d only been in the house for a month and there hadn’t been much call to leave and most of the time she’d go with him if they did need something. But when he would go alone there was a ritual they followed. She'd wrap her arms around him before he left, she'd kiss him sometimes, a little too long, before he got all jangly and walked away, squeezing her arm or her hip or whatever piece of flesh was closest to his hand. He liked that they'd repeat the process when he came back, that she'd wait for him by the window, take the steps two at a time when the car pulled into the drive. Sometimes he'd barely be out of it before her arms were around his neck, cheek pressed to his skin. And he'd hold her like that, hand cupping the back of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair, her skin, before telling her to get off and stop being so goddamned mushy. But if she stayed on the steps or in the house when he arrived he’d sometimes leave whatever shit he’d scavenged in the car and go to her first, give her arm a squeeze or touch her shoulder. He wasn’t as forward as her, his nerves always got the better of him at the last minute and he wouldn’t try and kiss her or hug her, but he liked the ritual, it felt good, something as close to normal as they could get in this suck ass world.

But not this time. 

Hands in his pockets, he’d shifted from side to side for a while until he realised there wasn't going to be a hug or a kiss or anything like that. So he'd picked up the crossbow and headed out. The door was almost closed behind him when he heard her call.

He stopped, looked inside.

She was looking at him over her mug.

"Be careful," she whispered. "Come home to me Daryl Dixon. Come home."

He hadn't said anything because his throat was all closed up, so he'd nodded, made that noise he knew she’d come to accept as meaning "yes", "ok" and something else all at the same time.

He would be careful, he would come home. 

And he needs to get on that because otherwise he’s just going to sit around in the car thinking of Beth and his Ma and opal bracelets and pies walking into bars.

He opens the car door wincing a little at the gust of sharp, cold air that bites into his skin, chills him and he really just wants to hightail it back home, forget this crazy mission, forget the meds, forget everything and spend the night holding her. Come back in the morning, like she said. When it’s light, when it’s easy. When the horrors in the dark couldn’t sneak up on you. But he can’t. She needs something, and there’s no time like the present. No use sitting here in suburbia like it really is suburbia any longer. 

He stands. There’s a walker stuck on the fence, but that poor fuck ain’t going anywhere, and another milling by the front door now which he’ll need to take out.

It’s quick. He does it with his knife, right between the eyes. The corpse isn’t even on the ground and he’s banging on the window waiting for groans and moans and hisses that don’t come. He’s not surprised. He’s not far from home and there haven’t been many walkers around the area. He’s not really sure why. It could be the cold because they do tend to be dopier and less energetic when the temperature plummets, although that doesn’t really explain why the dispensary would be empty.

Either way, he ain’t looking for a fight, just some meds and a safe passage back to Beth where hopefully she ain’t still pissed. He knows she isn’t though. He gets it. If the tables were turned and he was coughing up a storm and she was out here alone, he’d also be going out of his head a little. She’s tough and all but still…

 _How very 19th century of you Mr Dixon,_ he hears her voice and he smirks a little.

Ain’t that either, not really anyway. It’s more like he finds it hard to imagine that she could feel the same way about him going out on a run alone as he would feel if it was her. Seems pretty damn strange that anyone - let alone Beth - could feel that way about him. But there’s a part of him that knows that somehow - against every cosmic law of the universe or something - she does. And he also knows it ain't just about the fact that he can protect her and provide for her because she sure as shit proved she can do it for herself. It's something else, something more and it scares him. Scares him more than all the walkers in the world.

He pushes the door open, shines the torch into the murky interior. Place is dusty, an overturned desk, a broken chair and a smashed computer to the one side, an open door and a shredded couch to the other. No doubt this was reception, no doubt someone’s already been here. A lot of doubt as to whether he’s actually going to find any meds.

But someone is smiling down on him as he edges deeper into the house and through the open door because he finds the dispensary easily and it’s stocked. Not completely stocked, someone’s definitely been here but there’s enough and whoever went through it first obviously had no interest in cold and flu meds, which is a dumbass move in these times. But their loss, his gain and all that.

He wants to be precise in what he takes but ends up grabbing randomly because he doesn’t actually have a clue what any of the prescription drugs do and doesn’t want to waste time reading the labels. So instead he just grabs at anything that sounds vaguely familiar trying hard to remember the names of the drugs Hershel had written down for their run to the veterinary college.

Christ, that seems like a long time ago. Decades even when he thinks about all the shit that has gone down since then. The shack, the funeral home, Joe and now Beth. 

Beth. Beth. Beth.

_Your blue-eyed girl._

Yeah. Thanks Ma.

She ain't no more his girl than he's her man. And that's to say none at all. 

At least that's what he tells himself.

He also tells himself that this thing between them is platonic. That it's temporary. That it'd be pretty much the same with anybody.

Yeah he tells himself a lot of things.

But right now the only thing he needs to do is get what he came for and get home before some shit goes down that he’s not prepared for.

Which is why he can’t explain the overwhelming urge he has as he steps back outside into the night - over the walker - to go and investigate the house across the road. They don’t need anything, they have food, meds, candles. They might need a few batteries in the future but they don’t need them now. And a run like that is easier with two people anyway. In short there’s as much reason for him to go into the house as there is for him and Beth to sleep in the same bed. So yeah. None. None whatsoever. 

It’s cold. It’s dark. It’s a world filled with the walking dead who want to eat you up. It’s a bad idea and he knows it.

Even so, there’s something that draws him to the house. It’s big, expansive. A double story with white walls and a picket fence, similar to the house he found Beth in. It’s also unsecured and there’s far too many nooks and crannies that could hide walkers or people or whatever other horrors the world has left to throw at him.

He shakes his head, goes to the car. 

_Go home Daryl,_ his Ma says, _go home to your blue-eyed girl and make things right._

Yeah, his Ma’s got this one. He fumbles for the keys in his pocket but even as he does his eyes are drawn back to the house. He thinks of the opal bracelet, these people look like they could have been rich, he wonders if there’s something similar inside. Wonders if he can find it, find it for Beth. She lost all her bracelets, still hasn’t told him how. Wonders if he can make up for some of his old man’s past mistakes. Wonders if this is the way.

It ain’t.

He knows that. There are more important things he needs to worry about now. He also knows he’s being dumb. This is a bad idea. 

And yet somehow he’s already on the porch, banging the crossbow against the window, waiting and listening and knowing that nothing’s going to throw itself up against the glass. This whole area is too cleared out. Someone came through here before, someone’s been through these houses, at least this block. The only walkers seem to be stragglers who’ve wandered in from elsewhere, lost to the herd.

A part of him wants to laugh at that. How much of a fucking loser must you be to not only be a walker but be rejected by other walkers?

Yeah, he ain’t being logical again. Attributing human emotions to the dead. He knows the word for it: anthropomorphising. Merle always liked it, used to think it made him seem intellectual. Would tell Daryl to stop anthropomorphising Layla, the dog Daryl would feed on the sly. 

Layla.

He gave her that name. He misses that mutt sometimes with her wary eyes and drooping tail, her gummy grin and mangy skin. He knew she wasn’t human, but she was the only friend he had at times. Well until the one day she just didn’t arrive at dinner time and he never saw her again. That smarts too. More than the bracelet. Not more than his Ma though.

He thinks there is a distinct possibility he has abandonment issues. And then he wants to laugh out loud at the thought.

But he doesn’t.

Instead he bangs on the window again just to be sure and then pushes on the door. The lock is busted and it falls to the ground with a crash as he steps inside. 

The house is big, cavernous even. No doubt some hotshot lawyer or politician lived here. Someone with money, probably played golf at that club him and Beth lost themselves in a million years ago. If that was hell then this is purgatory. For him at least. Him with his dumpster chairs and bikini ashtrays. He’s not sure how Beth would feel about it. Beth with her solid family, Beth with her nice farmhouse and her Lego blocks, her piano and her string of pretty bracelets. Would she have been comfortable here in the old world? Could she have sat in the lounge and drunk ice tea, made small talk with the inhabitants? The wraiths that they are now? He’s not sure but guesses it doesn’t matter. Not any more, not in any real sense. What they have is now, because it’s all they’ll ever have. All they’ve had in a long time. And that’s ok, at least he thinks it is, even if he knows that something like this wouldn’t have been possible before. 

It doesn’t matter.

Problem is though, despite these little pep talks he gives himself and despite the fact that he needs to do it less often than he used to, in the back of his head he can hear Merle. And all he’s saying is how it does matter, how it’s the only thing that ever matters. 

The smell hits him as he edges across an expensive Turkish carpet and into the lounge. Sickly sweet, rich and somehow sour and foul. The odour of putrefaction. Decay. It’s cloying, sticky and he swears he can almost touch it in the too-thick air. It’s funny, he thought he was used to it by now, thought it had invaded his clothes and skin and hair. Thought it was just part of him, maybe even part of Beth too, so familiar that neither one of them could actually smell it any longer, but apparently even in this death trap of a world he still knows what clean smells like. 

And it isn’t this.

There’s definitely a body here, maybe a walker in one of the top rooms that couldn’t get down the stairs, maybe just a corpse, but definitely something.

Covering his nose with his rag he glances around the room. Not much to see. The place is a little trashed but not too badly. His torch picks up a few overturned chairs, a navy couch (no chintz, thank God), some marks on the walls he can’t quite identify and a few broken picture frames in the corner. A smashed mirror hangs above a fireplace full of tins and containers and other rubbish.

The smell though, the smell gets worse because now he can detect the acrid whiff of dried piss and something else beneath that he doesn’t want to think about. 

_Go home Daryl,_ his Ma says, _go home to Beth, she’s waiting._

He bangs his torch on his hand to get it to shine a little brighter. It isn’t a great torch, never has been. He found it at a truck stop with Joe but Len had already claimed all the good ones so he was left with this dim bulb that only really served to make the shadows darker and gloomier.

He makes for the stairs.

_Sit on the stairs Beth, sit on the stairs and old Len’ll show you what he’s got. You like that Bowman? You like it?_

He shakes his head. He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about this now. Beth with her ripped golf shirt being paraded around like a slave at a meat market. Beth is fine, Len is dead and he hadn’t done anything to her. Her bruises are gone, that handprint that he hated more than anything in the world too. His shoulder was even healed. So it makes no sense that all he can think of now is what would have happened, how it could have gone down.

 _Woulda, shoulda, coulda,_ his old man says, _it don’t mean nothing now._

 _But it does,_ says Merle.

 _Go home Daryl, go home now._ That’s his Ma. 

She seems to be the only one talking sense.

The first step creaks as he stands on it and he waits a beat, but the house is silent. He takes another step. Better now, quieter. His boots barely even scuff the the wood. There’s a smashed picture halfway up, a family photograph. Dad has a shock of salt and pepper hair and Mom looks like she just stepped out the pages of _Vogue_. Beautiful with chestnut brown hair and big green eyes. There’s three kids, two girls and a teenage boy. He’s all teeth and stick-out ears while the girls are blond, pretty, dressed in flouncy red dresses with bows on the shoulders. The cracks in the glass obscure their smiles and he wonders how the picture fell off the wall. If it was just normal attrition over time or if something broke it. He decides it was intentional because the picture is lying face up…

_Smash that picture Beth. It’s Beth right? Bowman, your bitch’s name is Beth, ain’t it? I just wanna be sure. Need to be polite and all. Yeah? Smash this picture Beth. Smash it good._

Fuck, he shakes his head, stop it Daryl. Stop it.

The smell is getting worse as he climbs, deeper, thicker, fuller. He fights the urge to gag. It’s something he hasn’t had to do in ages. You get desensitised to it after a while, learn to live with it. But not now. Now his arrabiata dinner that Beth threw together from some tinned tomatoes and whole wheat pasta is about to make a second appearance and he stops to let the feeling pass, let his roiling stomach settle, biting back the sour hint of vomit in the back of his throat. The last thing this place needs is his puke to add to the odour. 

Taking deep breaths doesn’t help though, makes it worse, so he continues up, one hand on the bannister for support. Slow steps, deliberate. Doesn’t want to fall, doesn’t want to lose his balance because his stomach is acting like a whiny bitch.

The top step creaks, much like the bottom one and he stops again. Quiet, waiting. 

Silence.

Silence and stink. Silence and rot. Silence and death.

He moves into the passage, turning left. Another Turkish rug that softens under his feet. The dim light from the torch picks up some more marks on the walls and he moves closer to investigate stepping over broken glass where more pictures lie smashed. 

_Break that picture Beth, break it baby. Break it like I’m going to break you._

Glass crunches under his boot and that’s when he hears it. So soft, so low, so faint he doubts himself, his instincts. Wonders if he’s not hearing things. But there it is again. The quietest hiss, the most muffled groan. 

He freezes, skin prickling and not in the good way that he feels when he’s with Beth. In that bad way that way that tells you shit is about to go down. That ancient evolutionary gift that only now in this piece-of-shit world is rearing its head again, a bandage on a gunshot wound for all the good it does now, skills long forgotten by our cavemen ancestors now coming home to roost. Now that we’re old and out of practice and stupid. Now that we’ve given them up in favour of the cell phones and computers and social media that we trust to do the thinking for us. Now when we need it most but don’t have the time to learn it all over again.

The smell is terrible and he’s sure there’s a walker somewhere, lying in wait, desperate to sink its teeth into him, to turn him. He runs his light along the walls, shining it into the hollow doorways. But there’s nothing. Just a gurgle, just a moan.

 _Better get it,_ says Merle.

 _Go home Daryl,_ says his Ma, _this place is not for you._

His old man is quiet.

The door at the end of the passage is closed and he knows it’s in there, behind that door, waiting for him. He tells himself it’s just a geek, a biter, he’s killed hundreds already, this is going to be quick, easy, shouldn’t be a problem.

Yeah, he tells himself a lot of things.

He heads to the door, presses his ear to it. It’s quiet again.

Dead quiet.

But the smell. The smell is overpowering. It’s not just decay. The odour of piss and shit is strong here too, stronger than downstairs. Stronger than the stink of the prison and the insidious reek of the moonshine shack. And suddenly all he wants to do is bury his nose in Beth’s hair, her hair that smells of citrus and sunshine, hair that smells of life and light even on the cloudiest day. 

His Ma was right, he needs to go home to her. Needs to hold her and touch her and feel the warmth of her skin on his. Feel the smoothness of her, the silk of her pressed against him. Her fluttery kisses against his chin, his cheeks. He’ll go, he’ll give her meds and rub her back. He’ll tell her everything, all the shit that goes on in his head, tell her how he feels about her, something better than “hmmhmm yanno”. 

_Go home Daryl,_ says his Ma.

 _Go home Daryl,_ says Merle.

 _Go home Daryl,_ says his old man.

He pushes the door open, hard, quick, stepping back at the same time, crossbow aimed at the gloom. Aimed at the ghosts, aimed at the past. 

The smell is horrific, death and piss and shit and vomit. The sweat of unwashed bodies. The guttural moans of walkers, strangled and thick and hungry. For a second it’s all too much and his courage fails him. He backs into the passage wall against a skewed tapestry that’s somehow still hanging, somehow still there.

_Take her upstairs, fuck her on the carpet. What do you think Bowman? You wanna watch? Wanna watch her scream for me?_

He stumbles a little, grappling at the fringes of the tapestry and pulls it to the ground, a puddle of warp and weft at his feet as he rights himself.

He should go. He needs to go. His Ma was right. This place ain’t for him. It ain’t for Beth. It ain’t got anything he needs and is full of all the shit he doesn’t.

 _Go Daryl, go now!_ says his Ma.

 _Come home to me Daryl Dixon,_ says Beth, _come home._

And there’s part of him that’s irrationally happy that her voice has joined the chorus. He’ll listen. Listen to her, listen to his blue-eyed girl because she’s the only thing that makes sense any more. The only thing keeping him sane. 

He’s about to turn, make his way back down the stairs before whatever hell is behind that door comes to find him. This was a stupid idea, it wasn’t even an idea really. It was a fucking whim. A teenage boy in a man’s body doing shit for the sake of doing it. Stupid, reckless, careless.

_What if you don’t come home? Then what?_

Beth again.

 _Leave now!_ his Ma is shrieking

And then he hears it. Scampering of feet across a wooden floor. 

It’s not shuffling, not hobbling, it’s not the walk of the dead. The lurching of the living ghosts that now call this world their home. It’s nothing like that. Nothing. It’s too purposeful, too sure, too direct. 

There’s something else in there. Something alive and kicking. Something human.

He turns back, crossbow ready, finger on the trigger. He forces himself to control his breathing, forces through the sting of the smell, forces through the prickles under his skin that make him hot and cold at the same time. Hot and cold in that same way that’s bad and ugly and nothing like Beth. He chokes back the nausea. Adjusts his stance. Peers into the darkness. 

But it’s quiet again. Quiet except for the angry rasping and the breeze through the trees outside. He waits. 

He waits.

He waits.

And then he walks into the bedroom, the bedroom that’s the same size as the entire Dixon trailer, into the smell, into the death, into the unknown, into the ninth circle.

Into hell.

Hell complete with a mission-style king-sized bed. Wooden, over the top, ostentatious. The sheets are purple - royal purple - for fuck’s sake or at least they once were. Now they’re stained, stained with piss and shit and blood and vomit, stained with decay and the rotting flesh of the two walkers tied together on the sheets, thin ropes looped around the headboard and under the mattress. Stained with death and ruin. It takes him a second but he realises that it’s the boy from the photograph, all grown up now into a man and all deathed down into a walker and the sister too, the younger one he thinks. Maybe a little younger than Beth but who can tell when your skin is falling from your bones? When your life has run out of your body and all that’s left is a fleshbag that has gone against the laws of nature?

Poor fucks, he thinks to himself. Poor stupid fucks who’ll lie here until they can pull their rotted flesh out of their bonds and wander through this shithole of a house looking for live bait to consume. 

Live bait which is hiding somewhere in this room. Live bait that’s scampering around in the darkness and nesting here for some reason he can’t fathom and probably doesn’t want to. Live bait that thinks he’s live bait. Live bait that he can hear breathing above the gasp and rasp of the walkers.

 _Go!_ shouts his Ma, her voice high and strangled. The same voice she used when his old man was so drunk and so high that all he wanted was his belt, the thin one, with the buckle that tore strips of flesh with its bite.

 _Daryl, please,_ Beth whispers, _please._

He plays the beam of his torch against the walls, shining it into the corners, looking for the source of the breathing, looking for that thing that can still scamper and not shuffle. The life in this room of death.

But he can’t see it, can’t find it hidden in the blue and purple shadows, hidden beneath the guttural noise of the walkers, lying in wait beneath the stench. It’s biding its time, holding out for a mistake, not letting itself be found. 

He finds something else though. Something his dumbass torch manages to illuminate above the bed. Something that turns his blood to ice-cold sludge, that loosens his belly even as it punches him in the gut. Something he only sees for a second, that he barely has time to register. One word written in dried brown blood. A word he’s become way too familiar with. A word he’s grown to despise and fear and resent as it grapples with him. As it tries to pull him back down to the life he left behind.

He barely has time read it because something is flying towards him across the room. Something dirty and small and screaming and flailing. Something that’s agitating the walkers as it streaks over the wooden floor, all knees and elbows and a mass of filthy hair. Small and wild and shrieking.

It’s a wonder he manages to read it. A miracle even as he’s turning away, turning towards the new threat.

But he does. 

He does read it. 

Between the hissing and the rasping and the screaming. Between his Ma’s sobs and Beth’s pleas and Merle’s shouting, he does read it. 

He reads it and he knows it.

He lived it. He remembers it.

And it’s all he sees as the thing, the wraith, the live bait leaps out of the darkness at him.

CLAIMED.


	5. The Lion's Den: Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness, I am sorry this took so very long. It’s really long so I do hope it was worth the wait. This was a tough one, but there’s a ton more Bethyl in it, so I hope you all like it. Thanks again to anyone who is still reading this. Thanks also for your reviews, for your patience, for your lovely messages urging me to update. I appreciate every one.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Soundtrack:  
> The hand that feeds - Nine Inch Nails  
> Where do we go but nowhere - Nick Cave  
> Slave to Lust - The Mission  
> In Denial - The Mission

Even in the bad light he can see his blood staining the carpet, can watch as it falls, red and thick, a broken, glistening rope of gore stretching from the bite mark on his arm to the pale grey pile at his feet.

It doesn’t drip as much as it plops. He’s not sure why that distinction is important to him, but it is. And it’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid.

 _So this is it?_ he thinks. _This is how it ends._

He makes a half-hearted attempt to pretend he has options, pretend there are solutions. The truth is there isn’t. The truth is he already knows how this ends. And strangely, he’s not emotional about it. Not at all. There’s an acceptance, a relief even. The knowledge that it’ll all be over soon is both liberating and terrifying. But then again, when was liberty ever comfortable?

His plan is simple. He’ll put down whatever is in this room, alive or undead, whatever the case may be. He’ll drive back to Beth, leave the meds on the doorstep, leave the car and then check out. Put a bullet through his brain. 1...2...3 clean and simple. 

Bang! You’re dead!

He doesn’t like that though. Doesn’t like the idea of actually pulling the trigger, holding the barrel of a gun in his mouth so that he tastes the steel, feels the metallic cold on the inside of his cheeks and then finding the courage to actually end it all. He really doesn’t like that idea and it makes him briefly wonder if he could find an axe of some sort, a machete maybe and chop off the arm. He wonders if the poison is already too far gone, if he’d even be in time to stop the infection. 

He doesn’t know. 

They cut off Hershel’s leg immediately. But they hadn’t had to do anything like that since. Who knows, maybe he should try. He could do it. If Merle could chop off his own hand, cauterise the wound and then drive a fucking car to God knows where, there ain’t no reason why his baby brother can’t do it too. 

He is, after all, a tough son of a bitch.

But then he wonders, once again, clearly, calmly, if this is wise. If the infection has spread and he loses a limb and somehow gets back to Beth, what does that mean? That she’ll have to put him down if he wasn’t fast enough. Is that fair? Could she even do it? He thinks she could. He’s not sure what would happen if the positions were reversed though. He watched Sophia be put down, put Merle down himself. Could he lose Beth that way too? Lose her and still stay sane? If he was the one that had to do it? He doesn’t think so. He _really_ doesn’t think so. 

But worse than that is the thought of her alone. Or her with whoever took her, her with Joe and the rest. That’s bad. He doesn’t want that. He really doesn’t want that.

He chances a glance out of the window. There’s a garden shed outside, dilapidated, but there might be an axe in there. If he can get out of this room, that is. If he can escape whatever nightmare is waiting in the shadows. 

He curses inwardly at his stupidity. At his reticence from earlier. How he hadn’t seen this thing coming. Hadn’t seen it because he was standing there like a fish out of water gaping at the fucking writing on the wall, breathing in the walker fumes that made him want to retch, running through the scenarios in his head of how this little tableau before him came to be. 

_Tableau?_ says Merle. _That’s a fancy word for you little brother. A real fancy word. This what happens when you hang around fancy girls? You go and get all highfalutin? Forget your roots?_

And then that thing, that thing of bones and nightmares had knocked him to the ground. It was was small, feral, all limbs and hair and screeches that chilled him to the bone and simultaneously got the walkers riled up so that they snapped at the air, groaned and gurgled from their makeshift prison on the bed. 

He hadn’t seen a face, but the smell was enough. Foul, rancid, decayed. (Yeah, maybe he could think of a few more fancy choice words if he tried.) He’d lifted an arm to fend it off and that’s when the teeth sunk in, hard and sharp and a fetid gust of breath had gone into his nostrils, his mouth, down his throat, making him want to gag.

He’d hit out with the crossbow, the side glancing off the thing’s head before it scuttled back into the shadows, into its cave, its hole, its nest. A shape in the darkness, a bad dream. The monster under your bed. He’d stood up, backed up against the wall, listening to it scuttle about, its laboured breathing, the clicking of too long nails loud on the tiles of the en suite which smelled of shit and death and terror. And then it went quiet.

When he was a boy, about eleven or twelve, and before his old man burnt all his Ma’s books to cinders, he’d nicked one off the shelf, one she told him not to read because it was too scary. But he’d take it anyway. A book about giant killer rats that came out of the sewers after a nuclear fallout. Rats bigger than honey badgers and just as vicious. They crept up from the London Underground into the radiation zone and feasted on whatever flesh they could find. They were the walkers of that world and the story scared him to death when he read it. He wonders now if the book was that farfetched, or if he really is facing down some giant rodent that’s clawed its way up from the sewers and decided to feast on his arm. 

He shakes his head. Ain’t no time for thinking about the past. Ain't no time for trashy books and his Ma and any other shit that ain't going down in this room. Gotta think about the now, think about how you’re going to move, how you’re going to get out of here and salvage what you can of your miserable existence and Beth’s magnificent one.

He stills. Stills his body and his mind, forcing himself to concentrate, straining for something other than the grunting of the dead. At first there’s nothing, but he waits, imagining he’s tracking a deer, listening to and then blocking the sounds of the forest, waiting for that whisper across the forest floor, the gentle crunch of autumn leaves. 

And then he hears it, hears it under the bed, hears it slipping to the dresser, to the en suite, near the nightstand. 

Clear as a fucking bell.

Its movements tell him it’s not a walker. Not yet at least, but the sight of it, the smell of it, the stink of infection tells him all he needs to know. He just doesn’t know what means. What it means if you’re bitten by someone infected but not turned. He doesn’t know, they never thought about that back at the prison. There were a lot of things they didn’t think about.

He looks at his arm again, shaking the blood off it. It’s slippery and it makes it difficult to hold the crossbow. His right arm. Great. Because you know, he didn’t need that one. After all he has another. Another that’s still a bit dicky because a guy went to town on it with a fucking tyre iron. But hey, he likes a challenge.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks again.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

_After all this. All this shit. Losing his family, losing the prison, losing Beth and then finding her again, and now he’s going to have to check out after all. Just when he started to put things back together._

_Another one of those cosmic jokes JC?_ he wonders. _The fucking dude with the suicide issues has to put himself down. Ain’t that a laugh? Working in your mysterious ways again? Having fun are you? Having fun while I leave my girl alone in this hell hole you and your Pops created?_

He’s glad Beth isn’t here to hear his thoughts. He knows it would upset her, blasphemy always does, but he guesses it doesn’t matter now. Guesses it won’t matter for much longer anyway. Now that he has to leave and all.

 _You can’t leave Beth,_ his Ma says. 

_You better leave Beth,_ Merle answers, _what the fuck happens when you turn on her? What the fuck happens when you try and eat her?_

 _Haha, what a joke,_ says his old man, _You’re gonna eat her out before you get to eat her out._

Yeah, his old man was always a dick.

He bites his lip as he hears the thing tumble across the floor again. He thinks it’s hiding behind the couch across from the bed. Yeah, these rich fucks had a fucking lounge in their bedroom. Probably took tea here in the morning while some harried, underpaid woman waited on them hand and foot. 

_Nice for some,_ he thinks, _really fucking nice for some._

Turning slightly, he aims vaguely at the ostentatious chaise. He can’t see shit and if he shoots something and misses he won’t have time to reload. Crossbows may be good for stealth but they’re shit for speed and really shit for confined space like this.

He thinks he sees a shadow dart to the coffee table. Thinks, but can’t be sure, because his mind is playing tricks on him now and his thoughts are so jumbled that he’s not sure he knows anything other than the overwhelming urge to run screaming from the room and back to Beth, to curl himself round her body, hold her tight and close and breathe her in until he either chokes or drowns on her. 

He doesn’t care which.

Because there ain’t no better way to go than that. 

There just ain’t.

Maybe it’s the thought of her, the idea that he could get back to her one last time before he goes - before he checks out - or maybe it’s just the decayed smell of the walkers and the desire to leave that behind that kicks him into action but he turns, deliberately, slowly, eyes scanning the shadows.

“You wanna come the fuck out?” he says into the dark room, making the walkers hiss, making his blood pound, making the world too small and too tight and too rotten.

Nothing.

Apparently it doesn’t want to come the fuck out.

No matter then.

Each to their own and all that.

He’s not sure what he really expected though. That it would give up, crawl out from whatever mess it was hiding under and show itself to him. 

_Hey Daryl, here I am. Wanna shoot me? That’d be awesome._

He guesses he’d hoped so. Guesses hope is dumb. Guesses it only works for people like Beth. People who deserve it. The rest of them just have to take their chances with luck.

Daryl Dixon ain’t that lucky. Never was.

 _No Dixon was that lucky,_ says Merle.

 _‘Cept you,_ says his Ma, _you got Beth. You got the blue-eyed girl and that’s the luckiest thing in the world._

He doesn’t know why his Ma needs to be such an old sap. Why she has to come up with her romance novel bullshit now. Now when he’s bit and about to go and get himself killed. Not when it’s all coming crashing down. And any hope he has is busy swirling around in the toilet bowl of his head. But she does. 

She could always pick her moments, his Ma. 

He glances back at the bed. The male walker has managed to pull a hand out of the bonds and it’s flailing towards him. He notices it only has two fingers on that hand, looks like it’s permanently flipping someone off and he feels hysterical laughter bubbling in his chest.

Ain’t no call for laughter now. Ain’t nothing funny about this situation. Nothing at all. He looks at the wall again, at the dried blood, at the thick trails of blood.

Fact is _that_ scares him a shitload more than whatever the fuck is going down in this room. That Joe and the rest could be wandering around here somewhere, close to them, close to her. Getting ready to take him out, take her and make her pay for Len and Dan. He can’t live through that again. 

He won’t. 

The thought of Beth alone with them, with those fuckers he thought he could run with. Those fuckers that seemed to rise from the ashes of the burning cabin, a last ditch attempt to claim him back. He shouldn’t have even entertained it. As if somehow it made them more real because he accepted it, because he let them in. Into him, into Beth. Because he was so fucking scared of being alone, he gave life to his ghosts and now they’re coming back to haunt him. Him and Beth and…

He stops. He needs to be sharp. Sharp for whatever comes next. And this, this “Claimed” nonsense above the bed ... well, this sure as shit ain’t helping. Sure as God made little green apples, as his Ma used to say when she was trying to be sober and cute. When she was trying to make up for a lifetime of sins as a mother in a few teetotalling days.

So he tells himself to calm the fuck down. Breathe slow and deep and look at your fucking options instead of lurching around from one half-baked plan to another. And for the first time in weeks, months maybe, he feels like a cigarette. He doesn’t like to smoke around Beth, especially now since she’s sick but the truth is he hasn’t felt the need in a while now, even though there was a stash at Mr Dudebro’s. 

Yeah, it's the end of the world and Daryl Dixon has stopped smoking. Gotta worry about your health and all. 

_(That’s for spitting chaw when your old lady tells you to stop smoking)_

The thought doesn’t comfort him. Not at all. In fact it pisses him off because it’s from before. Before when he was just being him. Obstinate, obdurate, childish and just plain fucking ridiculous. Time wasted. Time wasted hating her, resenting her for being alive. Wishing that he was with anyone but her. Her, the daughter of the man he’d failed to protect. Her with her hope, her dreams, her goodness. Her with her blond hair and her pretty blue eyes. And now all he wants is to be with her. He doesn’t care how any more. Never did actually. She’s always been more forward, more brazen and he suddenly realises that even if he does make it back to her, that last kiss he gave her on that ratty couch in that ratty room in that ratty house will be the last kiss he ever gives her. Because there ain’t no way he’s taking a chance with her. Ain’t no way he’ll pass this infection onto her, give her his death. 

He realises then just how much he wants her. Wants _them_. And maybe because he’s about to die, he’s ok with admitting that he wants Beth Greene more than he’s ever wanted anything his whole life.

“Fuck!” he can’t help it and he shouts it out, at nothing in particular. The walkers moan and gurgle in response and he eyes them cooly, angrily. 

Fuckers.

Dirty, smelly fuckers. 

He reaches for his knife. May as well get this over with at least. May as well end this. Give him something to do anyway while he waits for old fairy lightfoot to show itself and stop flitting around the room like a fucking junebug on steroids.

He thinks he’ll just make it quick for both of the walkers, a short, sharp jab to the head. Nothing fancy. Daryl Dixon is done with fancy.

 _Or you know, you could use what you have little brother,_ says Merle. _I mean, I ain’t saying your idea ain’t grand, but there’s a move here. If you weren’t so whipped you’da seen it._

Yeah, trust Merle, to see it. Trust Merle to see the manipulation. The _angle_.

It’s good though. Easy. Uncomplicated.

Enough with the carrot. Time to use the stick. 

He turns away from the security of the wall at his back, sheathing the knife again. He’s slow, deliberate, knows he’s being watched, as he exposes his back, to whatever’s waiting. He wants to cover his nose but he doesn’t.

“Ok Sunshine,” he calls taking a step to the bed, lowering the crossbow so that it’s aimed at the male walker’s forehead. 

A killshot. 

An easy one. 

“You come out now or one of your friends is gonna get a bolt through the head,” he drawls, putting as much redneck as he can into his voice. “Come on, I can see you tried to keep ‘em nice and comfortable here. Must mean somethin’ to you.”

The silence is his only answer. It was a gamble anyway, hoping that whoever is looking after them was like Hershel, unable to let go, unable to accept the inevitable. It’s odd but maybe because he’s bit, he doesn’t actually have that fear boiling over in his belly any more. Like somehow now that the worst has happened he’s got his swagger back. Found a semblance of place again, of himself. That’s not to say everything’s hunky dory. This situation he’s put himself in is beyond fucked up. The resulting situation for Beth even worse no matter how this goes down. But in a way it’s a relief. The other shoe’s dropped and now he just has to find a way to wear it.

“Ok,” he says conversationally as he takes aim. “My daddy always told me warning shots were a waste of arrows.”

That was true, he did. He also used to say “If you’re gonna shoot, don’t talk” but Daryl chooses to ignore that as he eases his finger onto the trigger.

He waits a moment, like he taught Beth. Finger on the trigger, square your hips, take a breath and exhale as you squeeze.

And that’s when he feels movement behind him, a footfall gliding over the filthy carpet, soft, dainty almost. A chill runs down his spine, tickling his bones, his sinew, his muscle.

He holds still. Dead still, even as the hair rises on the back of his neck, as every nerve ending tingles.

The smell, musty, dank, hits him at the same time as the voice.

It’s low. Cracked. Female.

“Stop. Stop please.”

He freezes, blood turning to ice as he stands there. Oozing walkers in front of him, God knows what behind him.

 _Swing and shoot,_ shouts Merle.

 _If you’re gonna shoot, don’t talk,_ says his old man.

Yeah, funny old man, funny.

 _Good advice and you know it,_ Merle whispers.

Yeah, it is, but he ain’t gonna take any of it.

Instead, he moves the bow slightly, a gesture of goodwill more than anything else because he can still get a headshot from this angle.

“I’m going to turn around now,” he says. “And I ain’t gonna hurt you. But if you try anything I’m gonna shoot and I’m a good shot. Between you and your friends here, someone will get it.”

None of the last part is true. Ain’t no way he can shoot and turn and hit the mark at the same time, but he just hopes whatever is standing behind him doesn’t know it.

 _If you swing right, you can get her,_ says Merle.

 _Right between the eyes,_ says his old man.

 _Find out if she’s bit,_ says his Ma, _before you do anything._

Funny, that's the first time he's considered that. Finding out. The actual possibility that he could make it out alive, that he might be able to go back to Beth and stay, not unscarred, not untainted, just alive. 

A spark of hope. And that pretty much kills him on the spot. Because as he said, Dixon and hope… those two just don’t go together.

For the millionth time he curses himself for coming inside here. Was no good reason to do it. Really no good reason. A teenager on a drunken dare to piss in the headmaster’s hot tub or snap polaroids of Junie Day through her fancy-ass Roswell windows while she blow dried her red hair in nothing but a slip that didn’t cover her ass. He’d never done it though. That was the crowd Merle ran with, not him. He’d always been a loner, always on the outside, the periphery. A bit like Beth when he thinks about it.

He turns. 

His heart breaks.

And he almost wants to die.

***

It’s not a rat, not a monster, not a demon. Nothing of the sort. It’s a girl, or what once could have called itself a girl. Small, waifish, terrifying and heart-breaking. It’s bad of him, he knows, but the first thing he does is ask if she’s bit, even though he should ask why she’s so thin and so frail and so filthy. Why she smells worse than the dead. Why she looks like one of them even though she's not. 

He expects a yes, maybe a show of her bite, a glimpse of feverish eyes. But she shakes her head, tells him no in that strange weak, raspy voice. He plays the beam of his flashlight over her to be sure and she seems to wither under it, as if this has happened before. As if she’s been scrutinised under harsh lights by scary men on cold windy nights prior to this one.

She ain’t bit. He makes her pull up her sleeves, turn around to check her back but isn’t about to ask her to undress so decides to believe her when she assures him that she’s not infected, despite how she looks, despite the smell of her. He tries not to let the relief force him to his knees. He only just succeeds. They do buckle though, buckle hard and fast and the thought of seeing Beth again and not having to leave her, maybe getting to hold her again, lay a kiss, gentle or not so gentle, against her lips. Maybe stop being so nervous and jangly all the time.

The girl is youngish. Maybe a little older than Beth, although Beth has become timeless to him of late so he can’t be sure. She’s small too. Short, shorter than Beth and skinnier. Some tight skin wrapped around bone. And she’s filthy, covered in dirt and grime, hair matted and greasy. Her clothes though, they don’t look bad. Unbroken black jeans, a heavy black sweater, thick socks on her feet. 

She’s trembling though but it ain’t from the cold. And her breath whistles out of her in a throaty hiss which scares the shit out of him. She breaks his heart. She’s so small and so frail and so frightened. He wonders how long she’s been here, how she’s survived. Looking at the walkers he can only guess that before they turned they were her only source of protection. He suddenly wishes he’d found her before, when they lived at the prison. When they could have taken her in, maybe taken her two friends too. 

As an act of goodwill, he lowers the crossbow and asks if they can sit down. She nods silently and shifts to the couch, her movements oddly graceful. He hesitates for a second wondering if he should actually make good on his suggestion before moving to the chair, the coffee table dividing them, the noise of the two bound walkers echoing in his ears.

He takes a moment to observe her as she fidgets with her cuffs, stares at her socks. He glances back at the bed at the grisly dried bloody writing above it. It’s not hard to figure out what happened here, the question though is when. The question is how long has she lived here caring for the undead after the scourge of Joe and Len, Dan, Harley and Tony washed over this house, this home. How long does he have to get home? To get Beth and get back on the road? Will she even go with him? He thinks she will in the end if he insists, but she’ll put up a fight. A fight he stands every chance of losing.

 _Thought you weren’t nobody’s bitch,_ says Merle.

Yeah, he’s Beth’s bitch. He’s ok with it too actually he realises all of a sudden. More than ok. There are worse things than being Beth Greene’s bitch.

 _Pussy,_ says Merle.

But he’s ok with that too.

He puts the crossbow down on the floor next to him, slowly, deliberately, making sure she sees him and then he holds out his hands, palms upwards.

“I’m Daryl,” he says. Seems a good enough place to start. Polite, unintrusive, like the old world. Who knows maybe he could have sat here, alongside Beth, in another life sipping ice tea and nibbling on fancy ass sandwiches. Fitting in. Yeah, that’s a joke, Daryl Dixon with his threadbare shirts and his scarred back, his knobbly knees and scruffy hair, sitting here, engaging in polite conversation, maybe discussing politics or theatre.

Who’s he kidding? He didn’t know how to do that in the old world any more than the new. He starts to wonder what life would have been like with a normal family but stops himself before he falls down that rabbit hole. 

This ain’t remotely the time.

He glances back at the girl. She eyes him, brow furrowing, as if she’s worried he’s trying to trick her.

“Beatrice,” she tells him and for a moment he forgets that he introduced himself.“People call … called me Bessie.”

The feeling of _deja vu_ comes fast, unexpected, and briefly he’s overwhelmed in a memory he can’t fathom, an image he can’t see, a sound he can’t hear and it scares him on a primal level he can’t even begin to explain and threatens to suck him in, down, away and out to sea. His skin prickles with gooseflesh. And his stomach lurches uncomfortably.

Enough, he tells himself, enough of this nonsense, this fear, this worry. Not everything has to mean something. Not everything is about him. In fact so little of it is about him.

He can figure it out later, he can figure out this puzzle, but not now, not in this dank room, walkers chorusing in the background, the smell of death everywhere, this waif - this urchin - in front of him, feral and wild and ready to tear him apart should be put on foot wrong.

 _Scared of a girl?_ Asks Merle.

Yeah, he’s scared of a girl. Damn stupid not to be. All the girls he knows are fucking scary.

She picks at her sleeves and he takes her in. The filth, the fear, the way she trembles with every move he makes. The haunted expression, mouth and teeth too big for her emaciated head. And suddenly he feels bad for coming in here, invading her space, trespassing into her home and frightening her. Even the anger at the tight pain in his arm ebbs. This is on him. All of it.

Their eyes meet. Blue. Blue as Beth's and his gut clenches to imagine this could be her in another life. She doesn't look like Beth though and he's grateful for that. Really fucking grateful. And he feels like an asshole, a really fucking big asshole. And when she bites her lip in anticipation of his next move, he’s suddenly at a loss, not sure what to do, what to say. He's not even sure he wants to take this on. Not sure he can take her on, her and her baggage, her pain, her history, her walkers. This entire situation is so fucked up that none of his million questions make sense, no matter what the answers are.

But then she starts to speak, and her voice is cold, emotionless.

"That's Frank and Nolly," she points to the bed where the walkers spit and groan and stink. "Well her name's Leonora but I always called her Nolly. She's my sister, he's my big brother."

_(I miss my big brother Shawn. He was always so annoying and overprotective)_

Leonora.

That memory pulls at him again, evading his racing mind by a hair’s breadth and the sound he makes in the back of his throat is non-committal. 

She nods though. Short and sharp. Businesslike, like he’s got it. Like he understands. But her eyes shimmer and her muscles tense and he’s suddenly scared she’s going to leap across the table and take a bite out of him again. 

And as if it was waiting for it’s moment the wound pulses angrily. He glances at it, blood dripping off his fingertips, crusting around his already dirty nails to stain the carpet like hazy brown dye. The walkers hiss and he knows they can smell it. One of the big downsides of living in a world where the dead walk, your chances of being wounded are higher and your chances of being sniffed out because of that wound almost a certainty.

“You better not be bit girl,” he says gruffly.

“I’m not,” she answers. He grunts in response and she seems to cave into herself drawing away from him, eyes darting to the crossbow and then to the knife - Beth's knife - at his hip.

"I ain't gonna hurt you," he tells her again but he can see she doesn't believe him. And suddenly he wishes more than anything that Beth was here. She'd know what to do, what to say. If there’s one thing Beth knows it's how to gentle people, how to temper them, how to hold them up when they're falling down. Yeah, he knows. He knows all too well. He thinks suddenly that he never thanked her, never told her how much what she did at the cabin meant to him. Never told her that she kept him going even when he knew he couldn’t. He ain’t gonna waste time any more, ain’t gonna bottle those feelings away, ain’t gonna even try. This hiding in plain sight thing that he does with his emotions is for the birds. Beth _knows_. He knows she does.

But all these resolutions aside - god, who’d have thought it was New Year for Daryl Dixon?- he knows she'd be able to draw this girl - this Bessie - out, take her in, make her feel safe. Not like him. Him with his gruffness, his rage, his tough edges and his harsh mouth. What's a nobody redneck know about this anyway? He ain't a friend, he ain't on her side. Hell, he's more enemy than ally at this point. 

"You can't have them you know. Not again," she says. "You can't ‘claim’ them. They ain't yours. Neither am I."

And it's like she's reading his mind. Dunno why that’s a surprise though. Beth does it all the time. Does it so well he wonders if somewhere there’s a teleprompter broadcasting his thoughts to her. Didn’t realise he was so damn obvious.

“I ain’t claiming nothin’,” he tells her gently. 

But either she doesn’t hear him or it’s not enough because she's suddenly standing and her voice is loud and shrill and the walkers gurgle hungrily at the sound.

“You’re not going to do it again. I won’t let you.”

She’s already across the room before he’s managed to stop her, quick and nimble, scuttling away like some unwelcome, but evasive spider that you know is living under your dresser but you can never seem to quite catch to toss outside. Or squash. As the feeling takes you.

“Bessie, wait,” he says, standing as she hops onto the bed, balancing herself expertly between the tied legs of the two walkers, avoiding the groping arm of the male and ignoring the ravenous hisses they make.

“Bessie, come away there,” he says even as he can’t bear to look at the bloodied writing above her head. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

She kneels, wedging herself between the rotten limbs, nesting almost and he has a grisly thought that this is how she’s been sleeping, passing her nights curled up between the putrefied flesh that was once her family. No wonder she smells so bad. It ain’t just a case of not having washed for months, the stink of death and decay is in her skin, in her hair, in her breath. He wonders if it could ever come out, or if she herself is more walker than human already. Bile rises in the back of his throat, bitter and intense and he needs to look away, shut his eyes for a moment while the disgust passes through him.

“Why are you here?” she asks, shuffling down, curling her arms around rotted ankles, ignoring the flailing hand near her hair.

He has to admit it’s a good question. One he’s not sure he’ll ever be able answer. No matter what happens.

“You come back for more?” she asks. “Why don’t you just leave?”

He wants to pull her away but he knows if he takes a step towards her, she’ll bolt, she might bite and there’s been all too much biting today already. So he just shakes his head.

“Bessie, I didn’t do this to you. Not you, not Frank, not Lanora.”

“Leonora,” she corrects and suddenly that memory, that untapped knowledge clawing at the edges of his clouded brain springs to the fore, punching him in the gut as hard as if it was Joe, Dan and Harley and their goddamned tyre iron.

_(Tony, imagine it was Lenore. Or what if it was Betty?)_

He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, thought maybe Joe was referring to a dead wife or sister, a girlfriend. Fact was, he’d been too buzzed to worry about, too concerned with getting Beth as far away as he could. Too worried about his arm and the blood clouding his vision and Beth’s dead eyes. Never thought about who and why of it, the way Tony’s jaw had hardened and how Dan’s hands had twitched between his spread legs. They weren’t talking about Before. Weren’t talking about a time where they were good men, men with homes and kids and families and maybe a labrador or two in the yard. Maybe they never were men like that, probably not judging from what he’d seen Len try with Beth. 

Those fuckers had done this, hurt this girl, tortured her family, killed them and left them to reanimate under the fucking logo of blood on the wall. Fuckers couldn’t even remember their goddamned names right. Couldn’t even be bothered to know who it was they were raping and pillaging. 

He knows the guilt he feels is unfounded, knows he shouldn’t feel this way, knows it’s not on him, it’ll never be on him. But he can’t help it. He wants to apologise but he knows he can’t, because he thinks that’ll scare her more and that hand is so very close to her, almost touching her hair.

“How long ago were they here Bessie?” he asks mouth dry, both dreading and craving the answer.

She frowns and he wonders if her mind has run off somewhere safe, if she’s checked out, if he can even trust any answer she gives him.

“It was hot,” she says eventually. “It was hot the last time you were here.”

“It wasn’t me Bessie,” he says softly. “I promise it wasn’t me.”

 _But it coulda been,_ says his old man, _coulda so easily been you. You and your Dixon blood. Girl can’t even tell the difference between you and them. She sees it. Why can’t you boy?_

 _You got away from it,_ says Beth. _You did._

“I ain’t like them,” he tells her.

“Nolly wouldn’t let them hurt me,” she says, her voice a whisper, so soft he strains to hear it. “Nolly said to take her, not me. So they did. And I hid. And I only came out when they were gone.”

The walker’s two remaining fingers touch her back and Daryl breathes in sharply as he has visions of her being ripped into the hungry maw, but something much worse happens. She shrugs slightly, so that the hand moves and then turns to take it in her own. Holding it tightly, rubbing her thumb across the dead palm and whispering words he can’t quite hear. Words that sound tender and secretive and loving. The walker hisses, jerking towards her but she pats its belly and makes a noise that sounds like she’s shushing it.

“It was hot,” she says again as if this is a new thought. “Summer.”

He hates himself for the relief that rushes through him. That means it was at least five months ago, round the time the prison fell. They're long, long gone or so he hopes. He's not sure how long they followed him and Beth once they got the car, it couldn't have been far, they drove for hours, no way they could have tracked them. Guys couldn't track for shit anyway.

"Don't you remember?" She asks. "Don't you remember what you did?"

"I didn't do this," he says. "I wasn't here."

"Where were you?" She interrupts and curls herself grotesquely around her brother resting her head on his belly, letting that free hand jerk in and out of her filthy matted hair.

"Bessie, come away there please," he asks.

"Why?" She says snuggling closer. "Frank never hurt me. Men like you hurt me."

He has to admit, she has a point. 

A very good point.

So he doesn't bother to tell her again that he won't hurt her. Knows it’s futile.

"Where were you?" She asks again. "Where were you when everyone went away?"

He swallows.

“Were you with them?” she waves at the wall.

 _May as well have been,_ says his old man.

“No,” he says eventually. “I was with people, good people. We found a place, a safe place. least for a while.”

“And now? Where’s your safe place now?”

Beth’s name is out of his mouth before he can stop himself. Because no, it’s not that little house, number seven, with its cerulean flower box, it’s not a moonshine cabin or an old funeral home. It’s none of those things. His safe place is Beth. Beth is his home.

“Who is Beth?” she asks, suddenly perking up, interested in his story.

“Beth is …” he starts.

 _Your girl,_ says his Ma.

 _Your piece of ass,_ says his old man.

 _Yours,_ says Beth.

“... she’s Beth. She sings and she’s gentle, but she’s tough as nails. She…”

She’s sitting up now. She’s taken Nolly’s hand now as well. He’s briefly reminded of his Ma during one of her religious episodes, when she’d make them hold hands and say grace around the table, thanking the Lord for his bounty. His bounty. What a joke. Some roadkill and a few grisly potatoes they grew in the back garden. Most of the time it made them sick because the meat was already rancid. But his Ma made them say it, even while his old man screamed at her that she was a dumb bitch, a whore, a cunt and that the Lord had closed his gates to her a long time ago. Closed his gates to all of them. The Lord had no call for Dixons. But they’d sit there, hands linked, while she prayed over bad food and thanked the Lord for all their blessings. He wonders if Bessie is religious, if she’s thanked the Lord for leaving her brother and sister with her, leaving her to care for their living corpses. 

"Are you good to her, this Beth? Or do you hurt her?"

He swallows, his mouth dry. "I take care of her, she takes care of me."

"I know how men like you take care of girls,"

"No Bessie, you don't," he’s surprised by the certainty he feels when he says this. Surprised by his complete and utter belief that what he has with Beth is wholly good and what he feels for her is real and decent and right. It’s liberating. And once again, terrifying.

She’s not so sure though and she watches him warily.

"You'd like her,” he says. “She'd like you too.”

He’s not sure why he’s saying this. Makes him nervous that his mind has jumped to a time where she could meet Beth and get to know her. Makes him realise that in his head he’s already thinking of taking her back with him, finding a way to make it work for the three of them. It’s nuts because he has no idea how he’d keep any of them safe. How he could trust Bessie - feral and starved and out of her head - around Beth? Around him? Where they’d find enough food, enough meds, enough anything to keep three of them going.

And yet he finds he doesn’t care. Because he knows he can’t just leave her here, living like an animal among the dead, waiting for Joe and his gang to come back and finish the job. He’ll take her on, he knows he will, he’s always taken the lame dogs on.

He thinks of Layla again, Layla the mangy mutt that she was. How Merle had laughed when he caught Daryl feeding her. Told him he was wasting his time. She’d never be a friend. Beaten once too many times, kicked too hard, starved too often. Mutt would take his arm off one day as easily as she’d lay gentle licks on his fingers. She hadn’t though. She’d become his friend when she was around. Would wag her tail when she saw him and follow him into the woods when he went hunting. She was quiet, quiet and loyal and good and sometimes he’d sit at the stream, grilling his catch over a small fire and she’d rest her head on his leg. She was wary at first, but he hadn’t pushed her and one day she just relaxed next to him, nuzzled his hand and lay quiet and still while he shared some roasted squirrel with her, her bites for too dainty for the hunger he knew she was feeling. 

Who knows, maybe Bessie could be his friend too, him and Beth’s. God knows they could all use one right now, Bessie most of all.

He’s telling her this before he can stop himself, inviting her to come and live with them, telling her about the eight houses and how she can choose where she wants to stay and how he and Beth will look after her, she’ll have running water and food to eat. He thinks it’s a good speech, a convincing one, is already making plans about how he’ll fix the water in one of the other houses and dividing their supplies in his head. But when he’s done she’s still eyeing him warily.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she says. “You can’t claim me. I won’t let you.”

And suddenly he’s deflated. Completely deflated. But it makes sense. Why would she? She thinks he’s like Joe and Len and Tony. She thinks he’s one of them, Lord knows, he looks the part. He wonders if this is the apocalypse version of listening to your mom’s advice not to go anywhere with strangers. He can’t blame her. She’s wise. Very wise.

He wonders if Beth could change her mind. He knows that when he tells her she’ll want to come looking for this lost girl, want to save her and look after her. Because that’s Beth. She’s like him, taking in the lame dogs, the lost boys, the feral cats. Hell, she took him in. Took him in when he sure as shit didn’t deserve it after the way he treated her.

He remembers holding her pressed to his chest, his muscled arm gripping her tightly and forcing his crossbow on her, forcing her to hold it and shoot it. He’d been so angry, so afraid, so hurt, he’d taken it all out on her. He hadn’t been kidding when he said he was a dick when he was drunk, but the fact was he’d been a dick sober too. She hadn’t deserved that, she’d never deserved that, orphaned girl that she was.

He’d tried to apologise once, that night after they ran off into the woods like two naughty little pixies come to cause chaos and then leave again before they were caught. Tried to tell her he was sorry for everything, the harsh words, the manhandling, the treating her like crap, but she’d told him he had nothing to be sorry for, nothing to make up to her. It was done. Over. And they could dwell in the past or pick up the pieces and start again. They’d both chosen the second option. And there was a time when he thought that was the point he’d started to fall for her. But it wasn’t true because it was impossible to pinpoint a moment, whether it was before or after. All he knew was that by the time they got to the funeral home, he was ready to accept Beth as being his life, ready to accept an existence that only involved her forever. And he was looking forward to it. It wasn’t a matter of not having a choice - they didn’t - it was a matter of being given exactly what you need even if it isn’t quite what you thought you wanted. 

Beth changed his mind, no reason she couldn’t change Bessie’s too.

“I could come back,” he tells her. “Bring Beth with, leave the two of you to talk. You could see if you trust her, make a choice then.”

She seems to consider this, biting her lips and frowning, completely oblivious to the dead hands in her own. She hushes the walkers distractedly and they flail harder at their bonds and he sees the restraint on Frank’s other arm start to give. 

"What about Nolly?" She asks.

"What about Nolly?” 

“Can she come with?”

“Nolly’s dead,” he says regretting it almost instantly.

“She’s not,” Bessie answers indignantly. “Look.”

She lets go of Frank and dangles her hand above Nolly’s mouth. The walker snaps and gurgles as her fingers almost brush the rotten lips and the yellowed teeth within.

“Bessie, stop,” he says taking a step towards her.

“If she was dead, she couldn’t move, couldn’t eat, couldn’t shout,” she says hopping over the body and landing on the floor with a small thud.

She touches the walker’s face and its broken teeth snap at her, black tongue emerging as it pulls on its restraints.

“She’ll be back to normal soon. She looked after me, I’ll look after her,” her voice is loud, shrill and it fills the room, the house, the world like an alarm. A signal for all the walkers, all the broken men, all the dead to come and see, come and live, come and play, come and eat her choicest fruits.

“Bessie, stop,” he says. “Stop.”

“No, you need to see that Nolly is fine, she just needs medicine, she just need someone to wash her and feed her and care for her. You just need to see. They need to see. Beth needs to see,” she’s shrieking now. Voice no longer cracked and weak from lack of use. No longer raspy. 

“Bessie, it’s fine,” he tells her. “We just need to work something out.”

“There’s nothing to work out,” she screams, running her hands over the walkers face, touching her hair which comes out in clumps and sticks to Bessie’s fingers. “I’m not leaving them. You can’t just come in here and take them away. You can’t take me away. I’m not yours.”

And she’s right. She’s not his. There is nothing to work out. Not really. Not any more. She’ll never leave here. This is where she wants to be. She has her family, the same way he has his and neither of them will ever leave. Ever.

“Why are you here?” she shouts. “Why did you come? What do you want?”

That question. The one he can’t answer, the one he’ll never really know. But she’s shouting again and all he wants is for her to stop.

“A bracelet,” he tells her. “I wanted to find a bracelet for Beth.”

He guesses that’s as good a reason as any, probably the closest he has to the truth either way. That damned opal bracelet at the forefront of his mind. His Ma’s jewelry on Beth’s wrist. As it should be. As it must be. What normal people did. Normal happy families. People without the bullshit, the drama, the fuck ups that the Dixons had. He almost wants to laugh out loud when he thinks of what would happen if he’d brought home a girl like Beth in the old world, what Merle would have said, what his old man would have said. If his Ma would have roused herself, left Jim Beam behind in the bedroom for a few minutes to come and meet her. Even worse is imagining what would happen when the situation was reversed. Him sitting in Hershel’s pristine lounge, Maggie and Shawn to the one side, Annette to the other while they appraised his torn clothes, his dirty boots. While they wondered what someone like him was doing sniffing around their pretty little blond daughter. It’s so ridiculous though, to imagine Beth and him in another life. It would never happen, could never happen. Is it bad, he wonders, bad that the world has to end to give you what you want? Maybe that means you’re wanting the wrong thing in the first place.

“I’m sorry Bessie,” he says all of a sudden. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Get out,” she says. “Get out now. If you’re not like them, you’ll leave.”

She’s right. She doesn’t know how right she is. He’s not like them, he’s nothing like them.

But he can't leave, can't leave her here like this. 

"Bessie, you change your mind, you leave something hanging on the door outside. Beth and I will come and fetch you."

She looks horrified. Horrified as if he's just told her he's going to chop of her arm and beat her to death with it.

"Get out," she shouts again. "I don't want you. You or Beth."

"Ok, ok," he holds up his hands. "I'm leaving."

"Just go!" She screams, suddenly rushing towards him and he thinks she's going to bite him again but she grabs something from the dresser and shoves it hard into his hands, pushing him backwards at the same time.

"Go!" she shrieks make the walkers snap and groan and he wants to throw up because he knows he's going to leave her here. Leave her in this mess, with the dead. Knows that she can't be with him and Beth, doesn't want to be with him and Beth.

She beats him into the passageway and he stumbles over the tapestry again, holding into the wall for support, not wanting to go down under her blows. But her screams are loud and high and keening and they shoot through his head until they're the only sound in the world. Until all he knows his her voice, her smell and the feel of her fists. 

"Stop," he says but isn't sure she hears above the sound of her own voice as she shoves him again and retreats back into the hazy bedroom, where she holds her arm above Nolly's mouth.

Abruptly her screams stop, but the walkers are riled up. Moaning and biting, teeth snapping millimetres away from her flesh.

"Leave now, or I'll let her bite me." 

He registers how calm her voice is seconds before he understands her words. She's panting but calm, steady.

"I'll do it," she says. "I swear to god I'll do it."

She will. 

He doesn't doubt it. 

He nods, a moment passing between them. And if he wasn’t crazy and she wasn’t crazy maybe he’d call it “understanding”. Or maybe he’d call it “respect”. 

He backs down the stairs, avoiding the broken glass, holds his breath through the foul smelling longue, debris crunching under his feet, a trail of his blood on the carpet before he runs out onto the porch, into the night, drawing big gasps of air into his lungs as if he hasn't breathed in years. 

He doesn't linger, he can’t. It’s too much to just stand there knowing the hell of shit and piss and death that’s behind him. It’s seconds before he's back in the car and hurtling through the night, blood pounding in his ears, another deep-seated ache in his arm dribbling blood all over the car.

His hands shake on the wheel and his bloody grip is tenuous at best and somehow he feels both as if he’s been reborn and is nothing more than a corpse in the ground. He curses himself, him and his ideas, him and his curiosity. Because now, now he knows that she’s there. Living there alone with the dead, hungry and filthy and he also knows he can’t go back, can face it again. Can’t risk it and it feels like a failure all over again. Another Sophia. Another Merle. Another Beth.

 _You didn’t fail Beth,_ his Ma says. _Stop saying you did._

But he did fail Beth. He failed her so many times, he wonders how many he has left before she cuts her losses. Before she understands that how she sees him ain’t the real him.

 _We burnt it down,_ says Beth. _We burnt it down._

She’s right. They did. But maybe he really does need her to keep on reminding him sometimes. Maybe he does need to rely on her for something. He decides he’s going to ask her for that. Ask her to give him that. And suddenly all he wants is to hold her, tell her he’s sorry for going alone, even though he’s not, even though he’s glad he got the meds she needed. But he is sorry that it upset her. That was the last damn thing he wanted. That from now on they do shit together, none of this going off alone nonsense. Mostly he just wants to see her, show her he’s fine, see that she’s ok. That there are no bites, no walkers, no claimers and no strange girls hanging around in the dark, ready to claw him to bits. 

He swerves to avoid a lone walker and has a ridiculous vision of it waving its fist at him for nearly taking it down and that’s when he realises his breathing is erratic and his entire body is trembling and he knows he needs to get himself under control, catch his breath, stop his heart from carving a throbbing passage out of his chest, fight back the red fog in his head which is nothing like the red fog he sees when he’s around Beth.

He stops the car. Just for a moment, he tells himself. Just for a second until he can breathe again.

He kills the engine. It’s still dark but it feels like it’ll be dawn soon. He can’t remember how long he’s been away. It feels like seconds and hours at the same time. Minutes and days. Weeks and decades. Time and no time at all. And he hates it because he doesn’t know if Beth’s been waiting for him or she’s managed to go back to sleep or if she’ll still be sitting in her chair nursing a cup of tea and a sterner expression. He thinks of Bessie and the way she held her brother and sister’s hands, like they were praying. Praying or playing. Playing over the dead. No, _presiding_ over the dead. A wave of nausea rolls through his body, right from his toes to his gut and up his throat, to the back of his mouth, before it rolls back down again. Down into his bowels, down to the soles of his feet. The tide comes again and he squeezes his eyes shut, gripping the steering wheel until it passes and he can take breathy gulps of air. Air that tastes like air and not death. Until he can breathe like a man and not like a fish out of water, until his vision clears and he can see purple sky and hear the wind and feel the cold of the night even inside the car.

He has an insane vision of his Ma stroking his hair, whispering to him, soothing him. She's sober, unbruised, her eyes bright and her skin smooth and pale. He knows it's not a memory. He has no recollections of his Ma unblemished but somehow it settles him, pacifies him.

Calmer, he opens his eyes and looks at the seat next to him where he shoved his crossbow on top of the backpack. He sees a glint beneath one of his bolts and remembers how Bessie pushed something into his hands before he retreated out of her hell. 

_Forgive me my tresspasses..._

He reaches across the seat and picks it up.

It’s a bracelet.

_...as I forgive them that trespass against me._

Platinum, delicate and adorned with citrines that glint even in the dim light. The metal work embossed with delicate filigree. It’s beautiful. Much nicer than that opal bracelet of his Ma’s. Probably worth more too. He turns it over in his hands. It’s solid and for a second he imagines it on Beth’s arm. He wonders if she’d wear it over her scar or on her other wrist. Maybe she won’t care so much any more. Now. Now that they are past all that.

_(I never cut my wrists for attention)_

He was such an ass. Such a fucking ass. And she was so fucking good to him. Good when he didn’t deserve it. Good when he was bad. 

It’s not too late to make it up to her. It can’t be. 

Maybe this is a start. 

There's blood on two of the stones. He rubs at it, but it's dry and hard. And then he wonders why he's bothering.

He thinks of giving it to her. Thinks of what she’ll say, if she’ll like it. Thinks of how it doesn’t look anything like his Ma’s bracelet. 

He opens the car window and tosses it out onto the street. He hears it fall and roll but he doesn’t look. He ain’t giving Beth anything tainted like that. He doesn’t care if he needs to spend the rest of his life looking, he’ll find something worthy of his Ma’s opals to give to her. Not some piece of bling stolen from a house of horrors. Not an easy find of gaudy stones that don’t suit her in any way. 

It ain’t right. 

It ain’t her. 

He drives off, hands still shaking, but not as badly. He tells himself it’ll all be fine. He tells himself he’ll come back and drop some food on the steps for Bessie. He tells himself that Joe and the rest won’t loop back here. 

Yeah, he tells himself a lot of things.

At the house, he has to force himself to bolt the gate and make sure it’s done right, make sure it can’t be broken, make sure all their makeshift alarms are in place. Make sure it’s safe, safe and secure and unbreachable.

A part of him wishes that Beth was waiting for him on the steps like she sometimes does, but he knows that’s stupid. It’s freezing, she’s sick and it’s the middle of the night or something. Yeah. Something.

It’s selfish. And he ain’t selfish.

Another minute won’t kill him.

Although it just might.

“Beth!” he shouts as he takes the steps two at a time and hurls himself through the door, trailing dirt and gore across the tiled entrance, hoping to find her wrapped in a blanket on the couch reading by candlelight. 

The candles are there but there's no sign of her.

“Beth!” he calls again, dropping the crossbow and backpack on the ground and making his way into the lounge. Into the light. Into the warmth. It feels like coming home. It feels like how coming home should feel.

He says her name one more time and the panic wells up in him, suddenly sure she is gone. 

Again. 

Again and again and again. Doomed to repeat this cycle over and over again. Over and over until he dies or goes insane. But he’s already insane. So all that’s left is death.

But there she is coming down the stairs, hair wet, skin still dewy from the shower, absently making to tie the baby blue terry cloth robe at her waist. Oblivious. Oblivious and beautiful and warm and everything he needs.

She stops when she sees him, blue eyes big and sparkling and terrifying, the ties of the robe falling from her hands. She's only wearing a very thin vest and a pair of panties underneath and even he can see nearly every curve, every dent, every crease he barely notices.

"Beth," his voice is cracked and doesn't sound like his, but that’s ok because her name doesn't sound like hers.

She takes him in for a second, and he wonders what she sees. His bloodied hands, the tremors, wild eyes? His darkness? His depravity?

His lust?

"Daryl," she says, hurrying down the stairs, eyes wide, “what…?”

But he doesn’t give her the chance to speak as the relief washes over him in a wave that threatens to drown him, leaves him gasping again.

He doesn't remember making the decision to go to her. He remembers how his fingers flexed at his sides, how enormous her eyes were, how the candlelight hit her just so. But the decision? That's not there, not there anymore than the decision to breathe, for his heart to beat, for his insides to turn to a hot mess and his skin to burn under her gaze.

His hands are on her, fingers digging into her hips, into the band of flesh where her vest and panties don't quite meet, and he's backing her into wall, his mouth hot on hers, his tongue demanding as he forces it between her lips, sliding it across her teeth, not caring that he’s catching whatever it is that she has, not caring that he can tell there’s a rough cough hiding in the back of her throat.

She hesitates for a moment, her body rigid and taut. But then her eyes flutter and close as she opens her mouth to him, lips pliable and soft under his; skin smooth and warm as her body seems to mould to his, takes on his shape, takes on his name, takes on his doubts and ghosts and demons as he leans, hard - so very hard -, against her. And it feels like she’s kissing the fear out of him, kissing the rage out of him, kissing the devil out of him, even as she fans the flames of the fire inside him. 

She’s not gentle when her hands find their way into his hair, not in the slightest as she grips fiercely against his scalp, as she holds him fast and tight so that he can’t move. Her tongue strokes against his, warm and wet and he realises suddenly that her need is almost as great as his. That it’s been at least a good five months for her, since Zach…

He pushes the thought away as his palms move from her hips to the satin skin of her smooth belly, fingers ghosting over the dent of her navel before sliding under the robe to rest in the small of her back, where her skin prickles and he can feel her trembling through the too many layers of clothing between them.

Somehow, he can't remember how because, in this more familiar - although no less comforting - red fog of his mind he can't concentrate on anything but the feel of her, the scent of her, the taste of her tongue in his mouth, but her arms are out of the robe and it's lying in a puddle on the floor, touching his boots. Distractedly, he kicks it out the way and wedges his knee between her legs. The movement jolts her and she heaves a little against him moaning into his mouth. And then her hands are on his shoulders pushing hard at the fleece jacket. The sheep, he remembers she calls it “the sheep” although that's a ridiculous thing to remember right now, when her mouth is so hot and her body is so soft.

He drops his hands from her so that the jacket can fall, struggling out of it, cursing into her mouth and making her giggle when his elbow gets stuck. It’s not even on the floor when he grabs her thigh, hiking her leg over his hip and moving himself into that soft and sacred place that is all Beth and all heat and all desire. He’s too tall and she’s too short to hold this position for long but he doesn’t care as he digs his fingers into her, knowing he's being a little too rough, knowing it shouldn't be like this and he should take things slower, not be so ungentle with her, not be so demanding, but she's grasping at him too, his hair, his shoulders, the rough muscle of his biceps, her hands eventually snaking under his shirt, reaching for his belt buckle, fingers firm but soft, touching him where he's firm but certainly not soft.

He groans, lifting her completely, wedging her between his body and the wall, pressing his weight against her as she locks her ankles firmly behind him.

His eyes flicker to her neck, her pale shoulder, the thin strap of her vest, as he licks at her teeth, her lips, her tongue, trying to taste all of her at once, the sweetness of her mouth above the wild heat of her below. He wants to eat her, eat her from the inside out and then again from the outside in, burrow inside all her wetness, her softness until all he knows is the shape of her, the smell of her, the taste of her. 

He's a little surprised by how matched they are as she kisses him back, how brazenly she sucks on his tongue, how it feels like she wants to swallow him whole even as he drowns in her.

Doesn't know why he thought she'd be timid though, why she'd be reticent. Maybe it has something to do with being afraid of unleashing the beast he keeps inside him, but she matches him measure for measure, stroke for stroke as the bare skin of her belly brushes against him, as she forces herself closer to him and he can feel the hardness of her nipples through his sweater. The desire to take her immediately, right here, right now, with the cold wall against her back and the blood on his hands is fierce and solid within him. So fierce that it makes him want to weep, so solid that it makes him want to scream. And he wishes he could slow it all down.

But he can’t.

He doesn’t know how.

He never did.

And with the smooth movement she uses to divest him of his belt, neither does she.

His hand moving from her thigh to her breast is almost instinctual - another decision he doesn’t remember making - and when she gasps into his mouth and shivers under his hand, he loses his head, loses his mind, loses his soul. 

He pushes closer to her even though that shouldn’t be possible, even though he should be suffocating her and her hands are stuck painfully between them. He wants to touch her all at once and not at all. Wants to savour her under his hands and at the same time crawl his fingers over every inch of her so that there’s no part of her he doesn’t know.

When her hand slips under his waistband, smooth fingers trailing along his abdomen, he knows he'll either come right there like a teenage boy against her or he'll fall to his knees in front of her, supplicant, submissive, content to worship her until the day he dies. He's not ready to do either, so he finds the strength to move his palm from her breast and bat her hands away from his groin. She's not so easily deterred though. And seconds later her hands are back on him one fisting in his hair, the other snaking under his sweater and the vest beneath it, playing across his belly, stroking outwards to his hips and then back again, making his skin prickle and his blood boil.

He tugs the strap off her shoulder, hand falling back to her thigh as he licks his way out of her mouth with long, smooth strokes that somehow seem to both satisfy and subdue her and he trails his tongue across her cheek and then down the smooth line of her neck.

He likes her ragged groan as her head tilts back and her hand starts travelling downwards again. He doesn’t push her away when she touches him this time, a gentle brush of her knuckles on his jeans where his erection strains against his zipper, where his arousal is plainer than his emotions. 

He takes a moment to rest his forehead against her shoulder, close his eyes, let her touch him, to breathe in that clean smell of her, the perfume of the soap, the perfume of her flesh. 

And to believe that they can have this. That he can take her upstairs, lay her out on that bed, that he can have her.

And she can have him. 

She could always have him. 

That wasn’t even a question.

Her hand lingers near his waistband again and it feels like she’s waiting for his permission. Feels like she’s scared to take the chance again and be rejected.

He ain’t going to reject her.

“Daryl…” she whispers and her voice is throaty and deep. And he knows what she’s asking. Knows she wants his ok, knows she wants him to guide her. Which means she’s out of her fucking mind because he needs more guidance than she’ll ever need.

Either way, he bites down gently on her shoulder, sucking briefly at the pale skin and opens his eyes.

Later, he’ll tell himself it was because of the small cough she let out at that moment, or the fact that he realised just how cold she must be pushed up mostly naked against the cold wall. Later he’ll tell himself it was a decision he came to logically and pragmatically. A good decision, a wise decision. A responsible decision.

It’s none of those things. 

It’s visceral and raw and him getting in his own way. It’s the voices in his head and the rage in his heart and the fear in every cell. 

But when he glances down at his hand, his hand that’s gripping her thigh, his hand that he intends to move to hers and use to guide her fingers to him, all he can see is the roughness of his marked skin, his tattooed flesh against the whiteness of her smooth thigh. The blood from his hand rubbing off on her in a dirty smear. 

And he stops.

And suddenly the idea of his marked body on hers seems obscene. 

Indecent. 

"Daryl," she breathes. "Do you...?"

Her voice trails off. And her hands relax, still. And it’s like she’s waiting for him to pull away.

And he does.

Harshly. 

A few steps backwards and he’s nearly flush with front door.

He tries not to look at her, look at her standing there, semi naked. But he can’t. She’s all legs. Legs and hard nipples and reddened lips. And he knows in that moment she'll take him to her bed, give him her flesh, give him her fucking soul if that's what he wants. He knows he’ll take all of it too. Give her back his own. But that ain’t a fair trade. Ain’t fair at all, because a few pieces of chipped glass ain’t a fair trade for diamonds.

_And lead me not into temptation_

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

He takes another step back, eyes fixed on the floor.

She doesn't move except for the gentle rise and fall of her chest, her breath almost as ragged as his. He can't look at her. Can't even think if her standing there naked enough that it doesn't matter that she's not. He knows that if he does, it'll be over. He won't resist.

He starts to ask himself why he's resisting but shuts that voice down.

"Are you ok?" She asks and her eyes are on his bloody arm, but he knows she isn't asking about it.

He grunts. Grunts, because he's beast Daryl again. Beast Daryl who has no words. Because he's a dick, because he's a fool. An uneducated piece of white trash who can't keep his fucking hands to himself.

"Daryl..." She starts again and suddenly his head and the house and the whole fucking world is just too goddamned small for this.

To go to Beth Greene you must go with perfect courage.

He manages to tell her the meds are in the backpack before he lets the front door bang behind him as he rushes outside, back into the night, where he belongs, where it's safe, where he can take his chances with the dead rather than the living. 

It turns out it's nothing near as dramatic.

He walks through the cold, checking the walls for holes, knowing there are none, knowing because he checked before he went to bed. He checks the gate a few times, the chain, the alarms. They’re all fine. Like he knew they were.

For the second time tonight he wants a cigarette. Fiercely. But he doesn't want to go inside any of the houses. He wants to be cold, cold and angry. Cold so that the taste of her freezes on his mouth, numb so that his hands don't remember the feel of her, the shape of her.

He ends up sitting on the porch, chewing on his thumb, biting down. Wanting to draw blood. More blood.

He can hear her inside. She sounds like she's washing dishes which is ridiculous. He wishes she'd go back to bed, go to sleep.

 _And then what?_ Asks his Ma. _Then you go inside and then what?_

She's right. Ain't like either of them can leave. Even if they wanted to. 

Which he doesn't.

So he sits and he waits and he waits and he sits and he breathes. And he stabs the steps with his knife a few times. And his blood eventually stops running out if him. And he sees the faintest hint of dawn peeking through the night sky. And he knows the day will be as cold as the night.

And he shivers.

He’s not surprised when he hears the door open behind him and she comes to sit next to him on the step, leaning against him slightly for a second that warms him, before angling herself away and pulling his bloody arm into her lap.

He chances a glance at her. She's dressed, which ain’t exactly a surprise, not like he expected her to come out here in her underwear. Simple sweat pants and a zipped up hoodie, those oversized tatty teddy socks on her feet and he thinks they're cute.

She catches his gaze and gives him a small smile before he looks away, blinking rapidly, wishing she’d go back inside, wishing he didn’t have to be near her. Wishing she didn’t have to be so goddamn kind and sweet and understanding.

But… but she’s Beth.

 _Your blue-eyed girl,_ says his Ma.

Not now Ma, he thinks resting his head against the railing of the porch. Really Ma, not now.

She rolls his sleeve up slowly and traces the wound as he tries not to curl his fingers against her inner thigh. She doesn't ask how he got the bite, or even if he's infected. And he realises just how much she trusts him in that second, how she knows that if it was a walker bite he'd never have put her in any danger. It makes him feel better and like a bigger dick all at once.

She's brought bandages and antiseptic liquid, a bowl of hot water. She cleans the mark quietly, efficiently, smoothing the dirt and muck out of the gouges. He looks at it. It'll scar. 

But what's one more?

He hisses slightly when she applies the antiseptic liquid but she blows on it softly. And his skin prickles under her breath. He bites hard on his lip until he can taste blood. But it does nothing to ease the ache in his groin, in his mouth, in his heart. He looks at her bowed head, the hair she's scraped back into a messy bun, the cool soothing fingers wrapped around his wrist, her pink lips forming a perfect “o” as she eases the pain with the air from her lungs. And he wants to draw her to him. Not like before. Not all fire and passion and the red fog that makes him lose his mind, but just for the comfort of having her next to him, against him. The way she fits him. And he her.

He shakes that thought away. He doesn't fit her, doesn't fit with anyone other than his demons. 

She doesn't look at him as she winds the bandage around his arm and tests it for firmness before tying it off tightly and pulling his sleeve down again. She keeps her hand gently on his arm as she moves the the bloodied cloth and antiseptic liquid behind them. And he can’t bring himself to move.

And then she settles against him, resting her head on his arm and gripping his fingers in her own. He thinks she turns her head to kiss the ridge of his shoulder and he looks away, blinking tears out of his eyes. 

He thought she'd be angry, he thought she'd be hurt. He should know better by now. She's Beth. Always Beth.

It's always been Beth. 

They watch the sunrise in silence and he bends his arm awkwardly to hold her head against his shoulder, feeling the cool, yet clammy, skin of her cheek against his palm. It's bleak and cold and he thinks longingly of his jacket inside. But that makes him think of how it got there and he can't do that. Because underneath the embarrassment, underneath the fear and the self sabotage there's that moment where he remembers how sweet and soft she felt under his hands and it makes him want her all the more. So he just keeps his hand on her face, her thigh pressed against his, the smell of her filling him up in the godawful light of the dawn.

The wind picks up again and she coughs softly.

And it's like a cord leading him back to reality. 

"Should be inside Beth," he says without looking at her. "It's cold and you need to sleep."

"So do you," she whispers.

He nods, but doesn’t move.

"Come," she says, easing away from him and standing up.

It’s a moment before he takes her hand and lets her lead him back into the house.

And he follows, because he's powerless not to, because he can't say no, because despite what he tells himself, he wants this. More than anything and he wonders if it's too late now, too late to touch her face, too late to press his lips to hers, too late to get that moment back. They step over his jacket and belt, they ignore her robe. They don’t look at the smear of blood against the wall from his hand.

He lets her lead him up the stairs into the bedroom, still lit with candles guttering in their holders, lets her push him onto the bed and then kneel between his legs to pull his boots off. He watches her, not even uncomfortable at this picture they are making of her crouching between his spread knees. He’s aroused. And again, he knows she's noticed, but he’s too tired, too overwhelmed to care. He doesn’t even try to stop her when she pulls his sweater off leaving him in his vest. And then she's pushing him down onto the mattress and for an insane moment he thinks she’ll straddle him right then and there. But she doesn’t.

Instead she slides in next to him, pulling the blankets up high until they tickle his chin. 

"Thanks for the meds," she whispers. 

"S'alright."

She’s quiet next to him and he chews his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth and popping it out, while he stares at the invisible patterns on the ceiling.

He knows they should sleep, but he's overtired, and also overstimulated, not just by Beth but by this whole fucking night. He doesn't want to sleep, can’t sleep. So he starts talking, telling her about Bessie in halted sentences, keeping his voice low. She lets him. Doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t ask questions, just waits for him to finish and when he does, when he tells her how he threw that damned bracelet out of the car, he turns to her and reaches across the bed to take her hand, drawing it to his lips and planting a kiss on her knuckles. 

She tells him she wants to go back to the house, see Bessie, and he nods because he knew this is what she would want. He tells her he wants to put some food aside, leave it for her, but that they can’t go in. Not unless they’re invited. And she agrees, brow furrowing slightly when he kisses her hand again. 

He wonders if he’s gone too far now. If this, this kissing her hand, is presumptuous, as if his earlier kisses weren’t. But then she pulls their linked hands away from his mouth and towards hers and presses her lips against his flesh, mouth moving gently over his fingers, the back of his hand, the crook of his thumb, before settling back down against her pillow and using her fingertips to trace the sinew and muscle under his skin in a slow rhythm that she doesn’t know has him digging his free hand into the mattress to stay sane.

He thinks she’ll say something about Bessie, something about things he should have done, something about how he messed up earlier, but she doesn’t.

Instead, she tells him she likes his ink as she outlines the dragon on his arm and then the star on his hand. She says there’s something about his tattoos that tell his story, that show her who he really is and that’s beautiful, because he’s beautiful. And doesn’t he know that? Didn’t she tell him enough? 

And he knows what she’s saying, knows she didn’t miss the way he looked at her pale thigh and the bloodied marks his stained hands left on her downstairs, knows she didn’t miss the reason he pulled away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers and he means it.

“Don’t,” she tells him, so he doesn’t.

Shadows flicker on the walls. She touches his hand, traces the outline of the star one more time and then moves to the heart on his wrist.

“It’s beautiful,” she says and he suddenly has a desire to show it all to her, all his ink, all his marks, all his scars. She’s seen his back, he knows she has, when you live in each other’s pockets and it’s too dangerous to take a piss by yourself you see things. They’d both tried to be decent about it but he knew she’d seen the one morning when he’d gone to wash himself off in the river, was no way she could have missed it because she was standing right there when he turned around, water lapping at his hips. Neither of them had said anything, she’d just handed him his shirt - eyes big, but downcast - and gone about packing the camp. It was the morning after they’d burned down the shack, and they were both still raw and overwhelmed and hungover and neither of them wanted to do anything to upset their newly-found fragile camaraderie.

But this is different, different because he wants to show her now, wants to show her the good marks, the tattoos she likes so much as well as the bad. He wants to be completely honest with her after today, after the run, after what happened downstairs. 

He doesn’t though. Not yet. Not when everything is so fragile and the want and need in him is so great. Not that he plans on stripping off right there or anything, pulling off the vest and going “hey Beth, check it out”. But for the first time in his life, he wants to tell someone how they got there, tell her about his Ma and her wine and his old man and his belt. Tell her about Merle and his leaving. He wonders how she would respond, but he knows already. Because if she can respond like this after what happened downstairs, he knows he’s totally safe. That no matter what he says, she’ll be that soft landing for him, that cocoon he can lose himself in.

She asks him about the dragon and the star. He tells her the star hurt like hell because the guy that did it didn’t know what he was doing, but the dragon was alright, mostly ticklish more than painful. She says she likes it again. Likes the way he has marks that he chose to put there because he wanted them. She also says she likes his scars but she touches his side where the arrow went through him so he knows he doesn’t need to talk about the others. She likes his sinew too, but mostly she likes his ink. It's sexy, she tells him with a mischievous grin, hot. And he blushes like an idiot and tells her to be quiet and go to sleep.

And she does, her breathing even, and her coughing intermittent. He knows it’s just the symptoms being covered but it’s enough for now.

And just as he’s drifting off she rolls into his arms, fixing herself against his chest, small hand fisted in the cotton of his vest. He kisses her hair and she mumbles something as he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close.

She looks up at him sleepily, a dopey smile on her face, no doubt exhaustion and meds hard at work.

“Am I good to you Beth?” he asks, touching her jaw.

She frowns even as her eyes droop and she looks confused.

And then she snuggles against him again and just as he’s about to fall asleep he swears he hears her tell him he’s a silly man. A very silly man. 

And he guesses that’s the most accurate and sensible thing either of them have said or done all night.

***

The ground is red with blood, red and stinking and even in the cold, he can smell it, smell the coppery tang as it fills his nostrils and it makes him want to retch.

Maggie, however, is already retching, somewhere near the fence. Rick, Carl and Michonne stand a few feet away from her looking at him accusingly until he snaps out of it and goes to her side and holds her hair out of the way.

She vomits again and he rubs her back.

“I’m ok,” she says but he knows she’s not. None of them are.

Abraham and Bob are moving bodies, and even though he thought himself stronger than this his stomach heaves again at the carnage. They couldn’t have done this alone, couldn’t have gotten out by themselves. And it’s amazing that Carol and Tyreese showed up when they did. Fate or something. 

Couldn’t have done it without them. And yet Rick’s expression is concerned and Maggie could barely look at Carol when she arrived and he doesn’t know why. Too many secrets, too many losses in this group. They’re broken again. As broken as they were the night the Greene farm burned to the ground.

Eventually Maggie straightens and he wraps an arm around her as they look out at Terminus.

“What now?” he asks.

“Now, we make it a home,” she says.

“You want to stay here? Here? Where they ate people?”

“We stayed in a prison,” she answers. “Our standards ain’t exactly high.”

She has a point.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” he shrugs.

“No,” she says looking at Carol. “No, they can’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Daryl is thinking about is called Domain by the late James Herbert. It’s the final book in The Rats series although it works just fine as a standalone and is so freaking scary.


	6. Creatures great and small

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been a while and for that I apologise. The recklessness, stupidity and OOC nature of the MSF threw me completely (not to mention all the rumours up until that point) and my inspiration for this fic disappeared. I'm probably never going to be over it and frankly I'm shocked and disappointed by story telling so shabby it has broken the fourth wall in it's lack of respect for its characters.
> 
> However I decided after much soul searching that I simply could not abandon Beth as callously as her creator did and I take comfort in the fact that they can't hurt her any more.
> 
> So to make up for my long absence and for the general sloppiness of the MSF (and by extension season 5) I am going to try my best to do right by this fic. Also because it has been so long and this fic has gotten so long, I will be posting two chapters, one tonight and one in a day or two (I am just doing my final edits). The second one will contain that smut I have been promising. Sorry it was all meant to be one chapter but it just got too long.
> 
> If you have stuck with me I am eternally grateful, for you kudos, your kind comments and your support. If not, I truly do understand.
> 
> As always, this chapter has a soundtrack:  
> Kingdom Come - The Mission  
> More Than Words - Extreme  
> Hallelujah - Jeff Buckley

Three weeks later he stands outside stamping his feet against the winter chill, and bellyaching to himself about bad choices and worse consequences. He’s not really angry, can’t be really because this is his doing ... well mostly his doing … well at least half his doing.

Regardless he can’t remember the last time he was this cold. Not even when he was a kid and there’d been no money for gas and heat and he’d cuddled next his Ma under a bunch of ratty blankets and hoped his old man wouldn’t come home from whatever bender he was on at the time. Sometimes he even got his wish and his Ma would be sober and she’d hold him and whisper to him and tell him he was a good boy, the best boy. The best thing she’d ever done. The boy that would make her proud and get away from this all. 

Most times she didn’t know he was there. Most times she was too wasted to know much of anything.

He shakes his head, tries to think of happier times. There ain’t many. But there are some. A few. Nights spent in drafty houses with the group while Lori’s belly grew big with Judith, and Maggie and Glenn fucked themselves to sleep just out of sight, but not out of earshot. Nights spent huddled around a campfire when none of the houses were safe and things were better outside than in. Nights when Beth would sing to lift their spirits and walkers would would wail and groan to drop them.

Surely it must have been this cold then? He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t think so. 

Even the prison during the middle of winter with its drafty passages and broken windows wasn’t as icy as this. He knows, he spent enough time in the guard tower, enough time patrolling the halls, enough time walking the fence to be sure. But this, this is different. This is the kind of cold that gets into your bones, that leeches your energy, saps your strength and leaves you helpless. This ain’t Georgia weather at all and even if it means the walkers are slower, sluggish, duller, he’s not sure it’s worth it. 

Even “The Sheep” isn’t helping all that much, nor the layers of clothing he has underneath it. And all he really wants to do is get back inside the house, lego village or not, and snuggle down with Beth in the nest of pillows and blankets they made in the lounge. 

Instead, here he is outside, freezing his balls off.

It’s at least half his fault.

He squints into the darkness and then looks back to the house. He can see the warm orange glow of the fire through the window, smoke curling out of the chimney and he thinks it looks like some kind of fairytale house, like it just needs seven dwarves or be made out of gingerbread or some shit. It feels out of place, out of time, out of reach. But it's not. And neither is she. 

Barely more than a few minutes ago, he’d been sitting on the lounge floor, back against the couch, with Beth snuggling against him, her head on his chest, arms tucked firm and strong around his waist while her hair got caught on his lips as he told her about some or other shit Merle had pulled back in high school. 

He’d kept it light, tried to at least. He ain’t got many light stories. Even the happy ones are tainted, tinged with the grime of his existence, tinged with nights left cold, hungry and scared inside the filthy trailer known as home. He tries though, tries to tell her about the time Merle set his shirt on fire, doesn’t tell her it was Merle’s only shirt and he set it on fire because he was too methed out to know what he was doing. Tells her about the time his Ma baked raisin bread that tasted like meat, but doesn’t tell her it was because she was drunk and threw in some diced roadkill that she mistook for raisins. Doesn’t tell her that he only tells himself it was a mistake, because maybe she wasn’t drunk and the roadkill was all she had to bulk up the meal. 

It’s not that he thinks she’ll judge. She won’t. He knows that. You don’t get to confess that you were a nothing, a nobody, a redneck asshole and then find yourself out on a limb later because a pretty girl can’t deal with the fact that your brother only had one shirt growing up - that anything you had were just his hand-me downs. It just doesn’t work that way. 

But it’s not that. 

It’s not a big deal that he had nothing before because the truth is that no one has anything now. Except maybe him, maybe her. Maybe they have each other and maybe that makes them rich in a way they never were. 

But it’s _not_ that.

It’s that he doesn’t want her tainted, doesn’t want to bring that shit into their house. Because it is their house. It’s where goodness lives and dreams come true and he’ll be damned if he feels like a sap for admitting it.

So he doesn’t. 

He won’t.

He looks back at the door and the cerulean flower box made a death purple in the shadows. She’s inside, bundled up in a homespun quilt in front of fire, while he stamps around in the freezing night air outside being gallant and shit. He doesn't mind though, doesn't mind at all. But he wants to get back to her, back to them. Wants to wrap her up in his arms, pull her close, feel her breath against his cheek and neck as she reads to him from a dog-eared book she picked off the shelf. She chooses a new one every few nights, reads a couple of chapters before they go to bed. Some are great, others - like the one they’re reading now - less so, but he doesn’t mind, because it ain’t about the books, ain’t about the story. It’s about her and the way she’ll lean against him or talk quietly in his ear, so that he has to bow his head to hear her, feel the slide of her flesh against his, the heat of her mouth close to his cheek, the way he can absently run his fingers through her long hair and watch her knit her brow and flush slightly as he does. It makes him feel important. Connected. Makes him feel alive. He's not sure how it happens any more, how they end up tangled in each other, how they gravitate towards each other and how it seems so easy to just hold her and give into this thing that exists between them, this thing he finds himself admitting existed since the night Zach died. but he doesn't dwell on it, doesn't question it. She's his world now, he doesn't want anything else.

She’s feeling much better now too and that’s good. Took ages and luckily he somehow managed to avoid catching whatever she had despite having his tongue so far down her throat he could’ve licked the sickness out. He shakes his head and stamps his feet again. He doesn’t want to think about that. They don’t talk about it. Not really. He still holds her every night, still lets her wind herself around him, still plants kisses in her hair. For her part she still flirts with him. But she’s gentle and safe and he never feels that flush of shame when she does it. Some nights her hands snake under his cotton vest, rest on his hips or his belly and he likes it, like the gentle rub of her fingers over his stomach. It makes him feel strangely vulnerable and yet protected at the same time. It’s wolfish, submissive the way he lies there with her, belly and throat exposed, letting her burrow her way in, offering himself to her in a way she may never realise. He’s ok with that though. Waiting until she claims him. He realises now that this was the way to do it. Realises now that he the only way to claim her was to let himself be claimed first. No, he doesn’t like the terminology, too many bad memories and all that. But it’s undeniable to him now that he’s marked her as his, marked her that day his golf club sent gore flying onto her pristine white cardigan. But it’s equally undeniable that she’s marked him and his strange lupine submission is the way he shows her.

There are other nights though, other nights that are worse. Because he’ll find his hands on her, fingers rubbing slow circles into her flesh, tracing the line of her arm, her hip, her thigh. They don’t talk about it in the morning. Hell, they don’t talk about it while he’s doing it, don’t talk about the way her skin chills and then prickles, the small gasps that escape her lips, the hardness of his erection, nor the scent of musk that lingers in the air between them. He finds he can’t help it. He wants to but he can’t and she doesn’t want him to, doesn't want him to help it, doesn't want him to stop, sometimes holding his hands on her when he tries to jerk away, other times letting her lips ghost over his collarbones, his neck, his jaw, the same way she did that night he found her. That same way that made him feel like he was dying and drowning and burning all at once. They don't talk about it the same way they don't talk about the funeral home, and the piano and the white trash brunch. The way they don't talk about "you know", the way they don't talk about "oh".

They don’t talk about it.

“Come on,” he mutters squinting into the darkness. It’s even colder now and he’s tired of waiting. They think it’s only December. Beth tells him she’s almost sure it’s Christmas and even dug out a box of decorations and hung a porcelain Santa off the window frame. Added a string of silver tinsel too which she wound around the some of the weird ass paintings adorning the walls in the lounge. It looks cute. He tells her she’s crazy but he likes it. He likes it a lot and he thinks she knows. 

And her Christmas cheer is contagious. Makes him want to do it right, makes him want a celebration, songs, lights, maybe a ham (he knows the ham is pushing it). And gifts. Gifts are important. He wonders if this time he’s overdone it.

Making up for lost time and all that. 

His old man had never given his Ma anything after they married. Well, nothing but bruises and two frightened boys. She said so once, told him how Will Dixon proposed with a fake diamond and empty promises and how she’d been too in love with him to see the deception in his words.

Her family disowned her, berating her for marrying “beneath” her, embarrassed that their prom queen, college girl with a bright personality and even brighter future could bring such shame on them. 

She was dead to them. Apparently so were her children.

And like every cliche in the book, like every bad movie and sob story, the day Will Dixon slipped his fake diamond onto Chloe-Anne Latimer’s finger everything changed. He drank, he whored, he made his kids put soap in a sock and there wasn’t a day in his life that he ever gave a shit about any of them.

He doesn’t know why his Ma told him this. Doesn’t seem the kind of thing you should tell your kids even if it’s true. But his Ma had never been one to hide anything from him and Merle. He’s not sure if she was just that honest or if the booze made it more difficult to lie. Or maybe she was warning them, letting them know that they only had each other, that you can’t rely on anyone for anything.

She couldn’t go back. And she couldn’t stay. So she did what she could and stayed without being there.

And he noticed one year, when he was old enough but not yet bitter enough that his Ma ain’t ever got anything for herself to enjoy. Never got a pretty dress or a necklace or something nice like he’d seen on the tv commercials before his old man sold the tv for drink money.

So he tried.

Managed to save up a few dimes here and there, even washed a couple of cars for a dollar or two. Went to the store and bought her some cheap candy, the best he could afford and left it by her bed on Christmas morning. Only thing was his old man was on a bender, had been gone for a long time and his Ma had been overindulging in cheap wine, spending her days alternating between drinking and vomiting and then drinking again. So Christmas passed by unnoticed as did his chocolates. She never knew about them. Months later he saw the box peeking out from under the bed untouched, still it its newspaper wrapping with a long dead flower for decoration. 

He never said anything. His Ma had enough guilt. She didn’t need that too.

 _I’m sorry Daryl,_ he hears her whisper. _I’m sorry._

He shakes his head, shakes her away. Shakes her out the way he's been shaking out Merle and his old man. Shakes her out like cobwebs. His mind needs a dusting, a spring cleaning. 

He thinks he's halfway there now that he can think about the presents without choking up or getting mad. Can think about the dead flower without the sting of rejection it represents. Can think about the things he misses that he never had.

He guesses if there were shrinks in this new world they’d call it “progress”. There ain’t though. So he settles for it being ok. Not great, not fixed, not wonderful, not healed.

Just ok.

And that’s good enough for now.

He ain’t his old man, he ain’t Merle. He’s not on a bender. He’s found gifts. 

For Beth. 

Forever Beth.

You gotta stay who you are after all.

He squints again into the night, making out a dark shape near the blood red flower bed that graces the outside of house number four in this little Lego village they live in now. 

"Come on, Bo," he says again, patting his thigh and seconds later he hears the clicking of nails across the Tarmac and the amorphous blob solidifies into a pair of too big ears and four too big feet, all held together by the skinny frame of a black puppy.

Yes, she has a dog. _They_ have a dog.

Yes, it’s his job to take it out to pee.

"About damn time," he swears ushering the puppy up the stairs. "Shoulda left your ass out there."

The dog wuffs happily and thumps its tail as if it agrees, before rushing past him and into the house the second he opens the door. He hears Beth’s voice, low pitched but giggly and he knows the mutt is busy licking her face and jumping on her and he can’t keep the grin from his voice when he calls that he’s going to check the gate one last time before he comes inside.

And he can’t stop smiling when she tells him not to be long because the book is waiting and she knows how much he’s loving it.

And he doesn’t even bother to groan as turns back towards the drive because he’ll read any goddamned thing with her if that’s what she wants. He doesn’t care if it’s fucking Faulkner or a bunch of dried tea leaves. 

And the puppy barks and Beth giggles and he feels something that he could almost call contentment.

It’s funny how things work out sometimes.

***

If the one-eyed dog was a sign of loss to come, then Bo, well Bo was a sign of foolishness and recklessness and idiocy. He was an accident, a cosmic joke that neither of them really understood until after it had happened. And even then, Daryl couldn’t get his head around just how completely and utterly foolish they were being … and had been already. He knew why though. It was Beth and he could never deny her anything. If Beth Greene wanted a dog, Beth Greene would get a dog and, pigs’ feet or not, he’d be damned if he let that opportunity slip through his fingers again. 

Existing ain’t living and neither is surviving and since they were already living a post apocalyptic parody of suburban married life, a house, a crazy neighbour, a little car … well, a pet didn’t seem too much of a far-fetched next step. 

He guesses it makes sense in retrospect anyway. It didn’t at the time.

They’d gone on a run, supplies were running low because they'd started leaving food and the occasional item of warm clothing outside Bessie's house twice a week. They never saw her, never as much as glimpsed a moving curtain but the food was always gone when they came back. He knew they were being dumb, he knew that this world was all about keeping what you had but neither of them could bring themselves to abandon her. Beth still wanted to go in but he had put his foot down. 

Well no, that wasn't quite true. 

He was deluded if he thought the position of his nice big male feet would have had any impact on what Beth wanted to do. But he'd asked her not to do it, asked her for him. Truth was the idea of going into that house terrified him but the thought of her in there terrified him more. So he asked, for him. It was the first time in his life that he'd done that. And he hadn't expected it to work, the two if them standing there outside that house, arms laden with tins and jars, like twisted neighbours coming to welcome you to the neighbourhood. 

But she'd nodded. Nodded and put the food on the porch, rapped hard in the door and then taken his hand in hers and walked away, back to the car, planting a quick kiss on his cheek before sliding behind the wheel and waiting for him to gain enough of his faculties to follow her. 

It was Beth. It was always Beth.

Regardless their little brand of charity was costing them and he wanted to stock up with as much as he could so as not to have to keep having to going on runs in the middle of winter. It wasted gas but more importantly it wasted time and after the last time he'd gone off on his own, he didn't relish a repeat performance. Beth was right, it was too dangerous to be separated and they needed to watch each backs. And it was hell for the person left waiting at home. Hell wondering if that's just it. The end. The last time for everything.

Which was why he took her with that icy winter morning when they were almost out of fuel and needed another car battery to keep the boiler running. Didn’t figure it would be a long run, had seen a run-down tune-up centre only a few miles up the road and, barring a herd infestation, it really should have been an easy run.

It was.

The first part at least. 

It was when he tried to get fancy that things went pear-shaped.

 _Yeah Dixon, you fucking know what happens when things should be easy._

The service centre was old school, large, but dingy and grimy even by new world standards, whatever the fuck those were. They’d coughed at the surge of dust that met them at the door and then gagged at the smell of a walker inside. 

Even now, he’s still irrationally pleased they can smell the fuckers. That the smell of rot isn’t so much a part of them they can’t tell the difference between them and the dead. Reminds him they’re still human, still breathing. Not one of those things, walking the line between the realms. They ain’t mindless, they ain’t dead. They can live, they can hope, they can laugh and maybe if they’re the luckiest people on earth and all the stars align, they can find some meaning too.

All they needed was a chance.

He thinks now that maybe they have it.

There wasn’t much to see inside: a series of hoists and pulleys, a few battered desks and torn chairs strung around the edges, partitions of drywall and corrugated iron. Parts of prehistoric computers and chipped coffee mugs littered the floor and pictures of big-breasted _Playboy_ centrefolds were stuck crudely to the walls.

It reminded him of the places where Merle would get odd jobs when he wasn’t in juvie. A bunch of burly men sitting around complaining that their old ladies were too fat and their kids too naughty and deluding themselves into believing that they had a chance with any high-heeled young blonde that walked for an oil change. That would be the moment they changed of course. When that hot blonde walked in. They’d stop their bellyaching about the extra pounds and the kids they never wanted and turn on the charm like a syrupy tap. Make themselves out to be capable, knights in oil-covered overalls, take charge and promise to solve all her problems. And after she’d forced a laugh at their jokes, paid them and driven off without a backwards glance, they’d revert back to their old selves. But now instead of complaining about their wives and kids they’d turn on the blonde, call her a cock tease, a slut, an uppity bitch who needed to get laid.

Yeah, because she spent her whole life waiting for them. That was how it worked.

These are the places he knows, the places he grew up in, the places he should call halfway home but can’t any longer. Because home ain’t there. Home ain’t a prison or a moonshine shack. It ain’t even a funeral home or a terraced house with a blue flowerpot outside. No, home is Beth. Beth is home and he knows he’ll follow her to the ends of the earth and never look back if that’s what she asked.

There was one walker inside, a man in blue coveralls dangling on a hoist. Another dumbass who tried to checkout and only succeeded in becoming exactly that which he wanted to avoid. Beth had made him take it down and kill it, told him they needed to do it. Told him it wasn’t inconceivable that someone without weapons would need to hole up in here one day and then that? They’d either die or have to live with the hissing and gurgling until the thing’s neck rotted away and it fell.

“We’re strong Daryl,” she said. “We need to do this. We need to think ahead.”

So he lowered the hoist and stabbed the walker through the eye and that was that. The end of it, the last walker they’d see that day as far as he was concerned. 

He was wrong. So, so very wrong.

Regardless, that part of the run couldn’t have been smoother. They found three working batteries, easily enough gas to last the winter and a stash of junk food in a dusty old vending machine. It was a good day, a really good day. 

But then he’d gone and got sappy, should’ve remembered what happened the last time, should’ve remembered what happens when he tries to get things for Beth Greene, when he tries to make things good, make things right.

She was humming gently as she helped him stock the car, a tune he recognised, one his Ma used to sing to him when she was sober, when she wasn’t weeping into a bottle. He couldn’t place it and when she’d knelt down to pick up the last battery, he’d caught sight of a loose lock of hair from her ponytail, watched how it trailed against her cheek, curling under her chin. And all he wanted to do was run his finger down her face and fix it behind her ear. She must have felt him looking at her because she chose that moment to glance up at him, her eyes big and blue and wonderful. A faint blush rose on her cheeks and she smiled, looking away while she hoisted her cargo up and walked to the car. Quickly, he’d taken the battery from her and dumped it in the trunk.

“All right?” she asked as he closed the hatch.

“Uh huh, let’s get out of here.”

She nodded and that piece of hair bounced back across her face and he couldn’t stop himself reaching out and tucking it behind her ear, fingertips ghosting across her skin and lingering on her temple for just a moment too long. Just a moment. But it was enough. Her eyes met his, clear and blue and it felt like she was reading his mind and seeing his thoughts. And he told himself to jerk his hand away, to stop this nonsense and finish up with what they were doing. But then she’d turned her face into his palm, letting him cup her cheek with his roughened hand, before planting a small kiss on his skin, lips lingering against the faintest hint of wetness.

And had it been anywhere else. Anywhere but a seedy garage with pictures of bare-breasted women stuck up on the walls, he would have kissed her, kissed her hard like he had when she was sick, backed her into the dry wall, run his hands down her sides, along that flare of her hips, across the curve of her ass. He could still taste her in the back of his mouth, still imagine the cool smoothness of her skin under his hands, remember the way she tangled herself around him and the way he never wanted her to let him go. 

But not there, not there in a place where the smell of diesel and rot permeated the air and the gaze of sultry women dared him even as they egged him on.

Ain’t decent. Ain’t right.

Instead he’d rubbed his thumb across her cheekbone and trailed his fingers along her jaw and down her neck, to her shoulder.

“Ready?” he asked.

And the way she’d nodded told him she was answering a different question. Told him she’d been ready since the night he found her, maybe even before. 

Told him he was the one who needed to answer that question. That his answer was more ambiguous than hers. 

And he’d thought to himself that his answer was out there already, waiting for the universe to acknowledge it and he wondered how she couldn’t know.

But he didn’t ask.

Because you don’t ask Beth Greene if she loves you, if she wants you. You don’t ask.

Ain’t decent. Ain’t right.

He’d asked her about the song though, the one she was humming. That was ok, that was safe.

“Called _Hallelujah_.” She told him as she buckled her seatbelt.

“S’nice,” he said throwing his arm across her seat and reversing out into the road swerving to avoid a lone walker. One that hadn’t been there when they arrived.

He wonders now if it was a sign of things to come.

“Yeah, it’s a good song, nice when you can put it to music.”

“My Ma used to sing it,” he told her. Didn’t know why he was bringing it up. It wasn’t important. Didn’t need to bring that into this life. This life with her. Didn’t need that shit again. “Would sing it after my old man…”

He shrugged and made a vague gesture that could have meant anything and somehow he didn’t need to say more. 

She'd frowned, brows knitting across her pretty face and he’d got the feeling he was missing something, that she was trying to tell him something she didn’t have the words for. It made him feel naked. Like she could see everything, and like it all mattered even when it didn't. 

“I’ll sing something else,” she offered.

“No, it's alright,” he said leaning across to touch her hand, letting his fingers stray across her wrist. “It’s a nice song. I like it when you sing it.”

He wanted to say that it didn’t hurt when she sang it. That somehow her voice, her clear, sweet voice, cleaned it, purified it in a way the cigarette smoke rasp of his Ma’s didn’t. That somehow it made him feel better instead of worse and made him believe that things don’t always need to be shitty. 

But he hadn’t.

Even so she'd smiled. Genuine, radiant, beautiful and sang.

_I've heard there was a secret chord_  
_That David played, and it pleased the Lord_  
_But you don't really care for music, do you?*_

And that’s when he turned into a lovesick sap, swinging the car around and heading back the way they’d come, back past the garage and towards the town centre. When she’d asked where they were going, he’d told her he had a surprise for her. Something she’d like. Something she could use for her singing.

_(I thought my singin’ annoyed you)_

No my girl, nothing could be further from the truth.

***

He'd noticed the music shop when they'd just moved in - house number seven, the one with the blue flowerpot. They'd been out looking for a gas station and he'd noticed a pokey looking store wedged between a long abandoned cafe and newsagent. It was one of those bespoke outlets for rich folk who got it into their brains to pay thousands of dollars for embossed violins or marble pianos or whatever the fuck took their fancy on any given day. The type of places he didn’t even know existed until he was too old and too bitter to be awed by them. The type of place that left him empty.

He glanced over to Beth who was still singing softly while she stared out of the window, at the way her hair curled down her back, at the red tips of her ears, and the realisation that he’d never feel empty again hit him like a punch in the gut. So hard that for a second he imagined he couldn’t breathe, let alone see or think or feel. Like it was the only feeling in the world and it kept him tethered even as it compelled him to float away, far away until he reached the stars and could move among them as if he belonged.

 _You do belong Daryl,_ his Ma whispered. _You do._

And he did. He knew it. No, it wasn’t some kind of destiny, some kind of predetermined mess he’d got himself into, some kind of fate that existed only in stupid romance novels and stupider TV shows. It wasn’t like that. It was like knowing your own name or how to walk. Something profound and yet incidental. He belonged with Beth.

Emptiness is impossible when your heart is so full.

He stopped the car across the street, killing the engine so as not to attract walkers with the sound. He needn’t have bothered. The area was dead and he’d laughed silently at his own joke.

An ornate but broken sign hung over the entrance with the words “Music of Note” carved into it and he couldn’t decide what was worse - the fact that the name was so bad or the fact that the shop’s very existence felt like a mockery of everything in the old world and the new.

He found he didn’t care. Wasn’t like they were coming back here anyways.

_Get in, get out. That was the mantra. Don’t waste time, don’t take unnecessary risks and sure as hell don’t take any chances._

Yeah that didn’t work out too well. 

“You coming?” he asked and she nodded, sliding out of the car, slinging her backpack over her shoulder and stamping her feet against the cold, the tip of her nose already turning red in the icy air.

They were in for a hell of a winter.

“Saw this a while back, when I...” he started but when her hand slipped into his he lost his train of thought and was powerless to do anything but tighten his fingers around hers and let her lean against him.

Is it like this, he’d wondered, is it always like this? Could it be?

In his head his Ma said yes and his old man said no and Merle just laughed like a drain and went silent.

He ignored them all.

They could hear a walker inside the shop, but it sounded like it was coming from a storeroom in the back, throwing itself against the door or walls with frustrated groans and grunts. He wondered what had it so riled up. Wondered if it could smell them or something. He wasn’t sure. He hadn’t paid that much attention to that CDC asshole when he started talking about the dead and he didn’t think he knew anything either way. But still he wondered. Like he wondered about that “family” they saw that night they escaped Joe, the night Beth put a knife through Len’s eye and another through Dan’s chin. He tries not to think of that often, tries to put it from his mind because when he does all he can think of is everything that could have gone wrong and how the fact that they are both still alive and standing with only one or two scars to show for it goes against every law of this new land.

He ain’t a much of a believer, not like his Ma. His Ma in her Sunday best all dolled up for church, a cheap pale pink suit and a white blouse ripped and stained with blood from her mouth, mascara so black and running down her face so that you couldn’t see where it ended and the bruise started. 

He ain’t a believer, but that night - _that night_ \- brought him one step closer. 

The shop was trashed, like most places lately, whether from scavengers or walkers was immaterial. Sometimes the dividing line ain’t real clear these days. The floor was covered in a mess of torn wet flyers about a Ladies Night gig at some bar in town and the windows were smashed, glass crunching under their feet as they walked. It didn’t look like much, not much as all as they picked their way through the debris, a fanciful joyride that would just waste fuel and leave them disappointed. 

It was a mess and everything was broken, keyboards smashed on the floor, dented saxophones in the corner, sheet music crumpled in amongst the flyers.

It didn’t look like much

But there they were. Three dusty guitars fixed high to the wall, well out of the way of the paper and glass carnage below.

And when Beth saw them and understood why they were there, her face lit up and she flung herself into his arms so hard that he had to take a few steps backwards to keep his balance.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said over and over again into his neck and when she pulled back and he saw that there were tears shimmering in her eyes he decided that yes, it could always be like this. It would always be like this and Merle and his old man be damned.

He wasn’t them.

He was different.

And his girl was radiant.

And he was ok with calling her “his girl”.

She chose the Taylor Sunburst something or other that he didn’t understand. He didn’t know what made it different from the other two, didn’t know why it was better or worse or what she planned to do with it that she couldn’t do with the others. She explained it to him as he stood on a rickety stepladder trying to get it down. Said something about the auditorium body size and the neck and how it would be easy to tune. He didn’t comment. He didn’t know, but he didn’t care. If she wanted that guitar and planned to run away and become a post apocalyptic rockstar he would have been down with it and followed her. 

And she kissed his cheek as he gave it to her and he felt it all the way down to his toes.

She was already trying to tune the damn thing before they were walking out the shop and in his head he was already listening to her sing _Hallelujah_ while she played. He was already picturing them at home, in the lounge, on the couch, drinking godawful instant coffee that tasted like dishwater with no milk and hearing her voice in his head. She was singing like she had in the prison, but this time it was just for him and he didn’t need to hide how much it touched him. And that’s why when he heard the sharp, high yelp coming from the back room where he’d heard the walker, his first instinct was to leave it, forget it and pretend it never happened.

But then he heard it again and Beth stopped and he stopped and, as one, they turned around and stared back into the dusty shop.

And there it was again. High. Stressed. Frightened.

“Daryl,” she began and he put a hand up to silence her.

“Stay back,” he told her as he stepped back into the gloom and the shadows and the dust.

_(But Daryl, you said there was a dog)_

And he knew he shouldn’t as he edged his way past the cashier’s desk, down the narrow passage that led to the storeroom. He knew they should just forget it and get in the car and drive back. Knew he was asking for trouble. And that at the end of the day, this would not be worth it.

But there was something in those high-pitched cries, those sad whimpers that went into his bones and his guts and lodged itself there like a gift and a curse and a need he could never shake. He was never good with leaving helpless things behind, never good with only looking out for number one. 

He always needed something to save.

More often than not, it was himself.

The cries were getting higher and the hisses and grunts louder as he got the storeroom. Something was throwing itself at the door, something big, something wet and rotten. 

_Don’t do this Daryl,_ his Ma said. _You got what you came for. Now go home._

 _I don’t know_ , answered Merle. _Your girl wanted a dog._

 _You don't even know it is a dog._

He shut them off, let them duke it out another time. He's knows it's dumb, he knows it's stupid, but... but... 

_(But Daryl, you said there was a dog)_

He didn’t need to look to know she was behind him, his knife in one hand, Len’s gun on her hip. She never could listen, never could stay,

_(I told you to stay back)_

_(But Daryl…)_

She was ready though. No longer that flush faced minstrel she had been seconds before when it seemed like a guitar and a song were all she needed for the rest of her days. When it seemed the same for him too.

She was Beth the warrior, Beth who can and will do anything. 

He didn’t bother to tell her to go back, wasn’t any point. Just nodded at her to open the door on his count. And as he raised the bow, the yelps getting louder and higher, he counted down on his fingers.

3...2...1…

And she pulled the door wide and the world took a breath and held it forever.

***

All he remembers now is how he felt when he thought she was bit and how he felt when he saw she was not.

It’s a sick see-saw of emotions that reminds him of the night he found her, or she found him - he can’t remember any more. Not that it matters. Either way it’s like being burnt only for the wound to instantly be soothed. You feel the sting, the pain and it’s just there long enough to make you draw breath to scream and then it’s gone, like it was never there. But you remember it, you remember the start of the fear and that’s the bit that kills you. That’s the bit that sends you over the edge, that makes you doubt yourself. And even though you know it didn’t happen and you know you’re safe and everyone else is safe too, you can’t shake it. It’s there, that knowledge of how it could have gone. That terrible thought of how it _should_ have gone. And then you get neurotic about it, and you hear Merle being a dick in your head and telling you you're like old lady Murray who lived next door to them in the trailer and checked the lock on her door 17 times every single time she went out of the house, who once told him that she had to wash her hands before and after she ate for exactly 90 seconds. Merle used to laugh at her, called her a crazy old bat, but Daryl always felt sorry for her. She was alone and poor and frightened out her skin and there was no one to help her, no one to reassure her.

When she pulled the door open a single walker tottered out. It had once been man, most likely the one who ran the shop.If not for the fact that he was rotten he would have been every cliche in the book from his long black hair and goatee to the Black Sabbath t-shirt and torn jeans he wore. His arms were tattooed and he had an ornate silver cross hanging round his neck next to a name badge which said “Sid”. 

Daryl had put him down in under a second, body slumped on the floor, eyes yellow and staring. 

Beth was first into the storeroom, knife still out but eyes keen and scanning the shelves, the cupboards, the floor for the source of the whimpering. And he was right behind her, hand on her shoulder, adrenalin pumping and all he wanted to do was get out. This felt too much like Bessie again, fumbling around in the dark and knowing something bad is going to jump out and bite you. 

The room wasn’t big, but it was full of overturned furniture and broken shelves making it difficult to navigate and easy for something to squirrel itself away.

“I think it’s behind there,” she said eventually pointing to a table lying on its side and wedged up against a locker.

He nodded and they moved into the gloomy depths of the room, Beth going down to one knee and peering into the tunnel created by the broken shop furnishings. 

“Yeah, it’s here,” she said. “Can see its eyes.”

Looking back now, he can’t believe how reckless they’d been. They’d made so many assumptions that day, far more than he thinks he’ll ever be comfortable with. 

They assumed what was back there was a dog and not some wild rabid animal that could claw and bite and mark them for death with it’s teeth and nails. They assumed that if it was a dog that Sid hadn’t already bitten it (fuck knows what happens to dogs when they get bit). They assumed that it was somehow just here and didn’t stop to think how it got there.

It was the last one that got them. Got them good.

The dog had to have come from somewhere, it had to have got into the shop somehow and ended up trapped with Sid. And it couldn’t have been all too long ago as it hadn’t died from starvation or dehydration. 

But they didn’t think of that, didn’t think of any of it, didn’t think there could be another exit into the storeroom which was damn stupid as all these shops needed a fire exit that opened into a back alley.

Beth was on her belly, sliding on the floor towards the whimpering, when he heard the creak, the sound of a door opening. It gave him a second, but only a second and then the back door to the shop bounced open, flooding the room with tepid morning sunlight and the guttural moans of dead men. 

And dust motes swirled in front of his eyes and the scent of rot and ruin filled his nostrils. 

In a heartbeat he was running to the exit, running into the decayed dead jaws, shouting for Beth to leave it, to get the fuck out of there. To go. Just to go.

He heard himself telling her he’d meet her at the road and he wished he’d never said that because it’s too much like before, it’s too much of the same and when he thinks on it now it’s part of that sting of “what if”.

_What. If?_

And he’s tired of history repeating itself.

He stabbed the first and second walker quickly, both crumpling to the ground much like Sid, neither a challenge, neither a threat. 

But then the door crashed to the ground and it seemed like all the walkers in the world poured through.

He remembers fragments and he’s grateful for that because he doesn’t know what he’d do if he remembers more, how bad that sting might be. He knows it would be worse than it is now, knows he’d never get that cold clammy feeling of what could have been from running down his back. He guesses he’s grateful for that at least.

But he’s really not.

He remembers that he’d screamed at Beth to go and seen that she was still on the floor, sliding between the shelves. He remembers thinking that she’ll end up trapped there, just like the dog, just like Sid. He remembers downing walkers with his crossbow and thinking that this is too much like last time. That she’ll get out and he’ll end up chasing a fucking car with a white cross all night long. 

Mostly he remembers shouting. He’s not sure if it was to attract the hungry hordes as they flailed through that door, or if he thought his shouting would get Beth moving. He’s not sure if he thought the old rotten woman looming over Beth’s legs would hear and come for him instead. But mostly he remembers the sound of his own voice, his screams.

And she’d listened.

She’d rolled over and stabbed upwards, movements swift and supple and the walker collapsed next to her.

“Go,”she shouted to him. “Go.”

“I ain’t leaving you,” he took down another walker, a child this time. He found he barely cared, barely noticed.

He knows now it wasn't as big or as bad as it seemed. He knows this but there still ain't nothing worse than thinking Beth Greene was going to die. Thinking you failed. 

Again. 

They both got out.

He’s not sure how. Never will be. He gives that to the sting. To the burn. To the clammy hand down his back.

But they both got out. Him through the front, her through the back. And he hadn’t even bothered then to kill the walkers following him. Not that he couldn’t have done it. There were fewer than he thought originally - he can chuckle at himself now for thinking it was all the walkers in the world, but not really. Instead he’d taken off swinging towards the back of the buildings, hoping to meet her from the other side.

And before he was even halfway there, she came flying round the corner, all legs and wild hair, face flushed and eyes wide.

He’d shouted her name and she’d gone down, two of the dead falling on her, yellowed teeth snapping close to her ear while a third launched itself at her boots, mouthing its way along the leather and hissing angrily at finding no purchase.

He grabbed the first two, hauled them off her back while she kicked at the one on her legs. He knows he stabbed them but he can’t remember what he used and part of him thinks it was his fingers in their eyes. He gives that over to the what ifs too. 

She killed the last one, stabbing it’s neck before hopping to her feet and stomping it once, harsh, efficient, gory.

And then they took care of the rest. And they were both splattered with gore and blood, and both panting heavily. And he could barely believe that minutes before she'd been singing and smiling and the thought of losing her was the furthest thing from his mind.

But when he looked at her, she was holding her side and he could see blood on her shirt. And his world tilted as he marched to her and, without preamble, yanked her jacket and vest up, shoved the mens’ scarf she wore around her neck to the ground, looking for the _source_ of the blood - not the _bite_ , he wouldn't allow himself to think the word "bite". He still won't. That belongs to the "what ifs".

She told that he needed to stop worrying, that she could take care of herself and she hadn't been bit. Did he hear? Hadn't. Been. Bit. But he checked anyway. He checked to stave off the guilt, he checked for his peace of mind. He checked because it’s bullshit when they say you can’t remember pain. Because he can and he does and he never wants to feel the pain of losing her again.

The fact was he would have stripped her in the street if he could have and not felt the tiniest hint of shame. But she was ok, no bites, no tooth marks, and the blood came from a graze on her ribs beneath her breast.

And he’d felt the fight go out of him, relief washing over him like a wave and he’d nearly fallen to his knees in front of her. And it would have been ok and she would have been ok.

And he still can’t imagine what it would have been like to lose her, because he doesn’t think he can do it a second time.

He just ain’t that strong.

No one is.

And he’d pulled her to him and kissed her forehead, hard and long and he’d told her he was sorry. And she’d told him he didn’t need to be and it was as much her fault as it was his.

And he'd said something about unnecessary risks and she'd said something about choosing what you risk your life for.

And then she’d slung her backpack off her shoulder and pulled the ties open and presented him with a cowering, smelly, emaciated puppy.

“Meet Bo,” she said triumphantly.

Because she’s Beth and she’d probably named him before they even got him.

And because he’s Daryl he checked her for bites another four times before they even got into the car.

***

The fire is dwindling when he gets back inside. He can hear Beth and Bo in the lounge, her soft voice and his low wuffs, her giggles and his small puppy snorts and he feels like a smug asshole as he smiles to himself and hangs “The Sheep” up in the hall. He thinks this is what normal feels like, although he wouldn’t know shit about normal. All he knows is what it ain’t. It ain’t screaming fights and black eyes, it ain’t the bite of a belt buckle against your back, it ain’t your old man snoring on a couch, the smell of cheap perfume and pussy on his hands while your Ma sits dead eyed and hopeless cradling a bottle of cheap booze. It ain’t your brother packing all he owns into a small backpack and slamming the door behind him so loudly that for a wonderful, bliss-filled second you don’t hear your Ma’s sobbing. It ain’t nothing like that.

He thinks maybe it’s something like this.

Thinks this is what it’s like to live in a home with a person you care about and do normal shit like shop and get a pet, cook and read in front of the fire. No fights, no rage, no hurt and the only crying is the type you do together. He wonders if he’s doing it right, if he’s got this. He thinks he does. He’s pretty damn sure she’d tell him if he wasn’t, but still he wonders. Maybe because it’s so easy, maybe because he thinks it should be screaming and crying and fighting. Hurling insults and when you run out of those hurling cups and plates, pots and pans. And it ain’t. Ain’t nothing like that at all. 

And he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for it all to fall apart.

She tells him it won’t but he knows it will.

He doesn’t have a watch but it feels like it’s late, really late and somehow the time got away from him this evening. He wants to believe it’s just the buzz from the day wearing off - not that they did much other than read and play with the dog - but the reality is it was the way she sat between his legs, rested her head on his chest and how it had been nothing, nothing at all, natural as breathing and walking to plant kisses into her hair as she read. How his arm had curled around her shoulders and he let his fingers slip inside her shirt and caress the skin beneath until her breath hitched and her flesh erupted with goosebumps. It ain’t got nothing to do with buzzes and everything to do with drawing out every moment they have, every second, because despite everything she says. He knows deep down inside, deep in that place where he keeps Merle’s voice that it could end in the blink of an eye.

 _Yeah, you better shit or get off the pot._ Merle, always fucking Merle.

But he doesn’t take it on, not now. Not when the world is good and calm. Merle has no place here, and neither does his old man, nor his Ma. They just don’t because this place is theirs and it’s easy to pretend that it will be forever as he moves to linger in the doorway of the candlelit lounge where the light is dim and the shadows alive and all he wants to do is go to her, go to her and hold her and kiss her, and never let go again. 

This is them, it feels like them. Him in a doorway waiting to get her attention, hoping she’ll notice him before he stares for too long. But she doesn’t notice, not for a while at least because she’s kneeling on the floor with her back to him, settling Bo on a pillow and pile of raggedy blankets and tattered towels. 

The book lies on the coffee table, discarded and forgotten … as it should be. Yeah, it ain’t a great book, ain’t great at all. But it’s a book and that’s more than he could have hoped for a few months ago.

 _Fuck you Dixon,_ he thinks to himself. _Complaining about a book like you have a choice, like your whole goddamn world isn’t in this house. Like you have a right to it, to any of it._

The guitar sits in the corner. Somehow it hadn't been crushed in the shop and he'd pulled it out through one of the shattered windows. She plays sometimes. Never _Hallelujah_. But she plays. She still plays.

She still sings.

For his part, Bo's adjusted well. To them, to his surroundings, to his new name, although heaven knows why she chose it. She’d cleaned him up when they got home that day, given him little bits of tinned viennas and small helpings of porridge in the morning. He’d been quiet and scared for a few days, cowering in the corners and jumping at any sharp sound and then he suddenly blossomed into everything a puppy should be. Cheerful, goofy, hyperactive. And even Beth had seemed calmer, back in her element, caring for something that wasn’t him.

She asked him what kind of a dog he thought Bo was and he’d told her something with mutt in it. And she’d playfully punched his shoulder and gone to wrestle with the puppy on the floor.

And if he didn’t think it was stupid to have taken the dog on before he did then, because he realised that they could never go anywhere without it, couldn’t leave it locked up here to starve if they didn’t come back. And going anywhere with it was akin to a death sentence. 

And he didn’t care.

Because somehow they’d saved something other than each other. 

And that was all that mattered

Bo’s tired, curling up into the bedding, skinny tail making a slow gentle _thump thump thump_ against one of the pillows. It’s good though because there ain’t nothing like having a young puppy missing its mother crying all night. He knows because Merle made a habit of trying to breed dogs every now and then. Said it was the big time, they’d make thousands and it’d be easy money. Problem was Merle couldn’t care for a dog to save his life - fuck Merle could barely care for himself - and Daryl ended up walking the streets trying to find homes for sick puppies he had no hope of looking after himself. 

But this is different. Feels nothing like Merle and his bullshit. This is Beth and if anyone can coax life out of the dead and depressed it’s her. Bo didn’t stand a chance. Neither did he. Neither did anyone on this whole fucking doomed planet because once Beth Greene had you in her clutches, the only way out was up. You leave better off than you came, if you leave at all. And he knows that ain’t likely. Ain’t even the remotest possibility.

Her shirt hitches up as she moves exposing that band of white flesh on her back he doesn’t think he’ll ever get out of his head. Not since that night when he’d kissed her and touched her and had his hands on her like a man possessed. She’s pale like snow and smooth like silk and even though he knows how she feels under his fingers, he wants to touch her again. Put his mouth on her, on it and plant a chain of kisses across her belly, mouth at that shameless flare of her hip while she grips his hair, as her fingernails scratch at his scalp and her knees buckle so that he has to hold her up … or pull her down.

He tries to look away.

He can’t.

_(It’s just become easier to be afraid)_

And then she stills, spine straightening, head cocked as if she’s heard something. There’s no stress in her pose though, no worry. Ain’t like she heard the gate or the barrier of cans and cutlery outside. Ain’t like she’s afraid. No, he knows it’s him, knows she’s sensed his eyes on her, knows she can feel his lust heavy on her. Knows he should be embarrassed and clear his throat or make some noise that he was just on his way in, that he hadn’t been watching how the candlelight outlines her curves, how her hair looks like fire and her body looks like earth.

But he can’t. Because he doesn’t lie to Beth Greene.

That stray lock of hair bounces against her cheek again and he remembers how her skin felt when he tucked it behind her ear. How she was smooth and silky, how she smelled of rosemary and sage and musk. He wants to touch it again, tells himself he wants to pull her into his arms again and listen to her read bad fiction, let her hair stick to his lips, but that isn’t what he wants.

Isn’t what he wants at all.

She stands and turns. It’s slow but sure and when her eyes meet his, it’s like she sees his thoughts. It ain’t nothing new really, he’s never been able to hide anything from her anyway. Not his blurted confessions nor his constant semi-arousal in the dark hours of night as she lies pressed against him, body flushed, limbs tangled with his. He’s open and honest and laid bare like he’s never been before. And he’s ok with it. Ok with her seeing it and knowing it even if he doesn’t know where it will lead, even if this turns into another aborted attempt or nothing at all.

It doesn’t matter.

_(it does matter)_

Her expression gives nothing away. She’s Beth Greene, she has a good game face and somehow that makes him feel vulnerable because he knows he’s obvious, knows he always has been. But then he’s always known that Beth holds him in her hands, that she’ll lead and he’ll follow. That he’ll be more faithful than any dog and twice as protective.

_Good boy, good dog._

The curtains are open and for a second he’s distracted by the very light snow falling outside. He wonders if he should tell her about it, wonders if she’d like to go outside and see, but his mouth is dry and his palms are wet and his heart is thudding too loudly in his ears.

He looks back to her, at the blown pupils ringed with the tiniest line of the blue, at that loose lock of hair, at the blue and red plaid shirt and the white vest beneath it, the silver chain that hangs in the hollow between her breasts.

His breath hitches and he thinks he makes a wheezing sound deep in his chest. He knows that he should say something, anything. Something like “gate’s secure” or “you ok?” or ask her about the fucking weather in Alaska, but he doesn’t because all he can see is her and her eyes and her hair and the delicate pout of her lips.

And that’s when she reaches up and undoes her shirt. She purposeful, slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving his, fingers nimble as she pops the buttons out of their holes and let's it slide from her shoulders to the floor.

He thinks it’s a dare. He also thinks it’s an invitation.

Truth is she _could_ just be getting ready for bed, but that's the crazy side of his brain talking, the non-believer, the little boy who got laughed at by the other kids for his shabby clothes and too long hair, the lost man who got ditched by Junie Day despite their shared beginnings.

Beth's not getting ready for bed. He knows she's not. He knows this is different. It’s a challenge. She’s asking him if he’s brave enough to take what she knows he wants, to end this game after months of dancing around it, to let this thing between them run the course nature intended from the day Zach died and he took his place in her cell.

Even so, when she tugs her vest over her head and stands there mostly naked and he can't bring himself to look at her, to drop his gaze from her eyes and her face.

He hears himself asking her what she is doing in a voice that isn’t his but rather that of a man both much older and much younger.

“What are you doing Beth? What are you doing?”

_(What are you doing?)_

And for a second she looks shy and her gaze wavers, drops to ground where she stares at her tatty teddy socks, biting her lip. And then she closes her eyes, squares her shoulders and looks at him dead on and it’s that Beth Greene look. The one that frightened him and comforted him at the cabin, the one that killed and saved him at the funeral home. 

“You know,” her voice is soft but firm.

And he does know.

He _does_ know.

He knows when she undoes her jeans, shimmies out of them, her socks too.

He knows when she hooks her thumbs into her panties and glances at him again and then leaves them. He knows when it seems she's asking permission, approval. He has to know, like she has to know. But still he wavers, still he falters and he tells himself he’s not sure.

And he knows when she holds her hand out to him.

_(You know)_

And he wants to take her hand and hold it and let her draw him into the room and down onto the nest of pillows. But it feels like the door frame is the only thing holding him up, the only thing tethering him to this world. And he wants to hold that too because he knows it. Because he understands it and he doesn’t understand Beth Greene in front of him, doesn’t understand the cool line of her pale flesh, the hardness of her nipples, the curve of her small breasts, the sharp hipbones and the shadows below. This Beth that saps his strength and leaves him helpless. This Beth that lives in the marrow of his bones.

And he thinks if he lets go he’ll be sucked into a world he can never navigate his way out of, and worse, one he won’t want to leave. But the truth is, he already doesn’t want to leave. It makes no difference one way or another really. He’s here. He’ll always be here.

She says his name again and he realises he’s leaving her hanging, leaving her standing there, leaving her frightened and shy and he unclenches his fists not sure whether it’s to take her hand or let the heat out of his and steps awkwardly across the threshold. He thinks this might be ok, this might be them, this might work.

“Beth…” he starts.

“You know,” she says again as he closes the distance between them and her hands rise to rest of his biceps.

And there’s nothing left to say. No words, no sounds, nothing but his own grunted realisation, his own acknowledgement of her and him and them and this thing they have.

“Oh.”

_(Oh)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Hallelujah - Leonard Cohen


	7. Hallelujah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is for all you sexy people. The smut, the horizontal Tango, the naked shenanigans.
> 
> Be kind. I'm no good at smut.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone for all their support and please review if you get a chance.
> 
> Soundtrack  
> I love you but I don't know what to say - Ryan Adams  
> Take me to church - Hozier  
> Because the night - Bruce Springsteen  
> Break your heart - Gaslight Anthem

He's looking anywhere but her. Anywhere but her flesh and she finds that endearing. Endearing and little frightening. 

He's biting his lip too, scraping his teeth over the meat of it, sucking it loosely into his mouth and popping it out again. And she wants to tell him it's ok but she also doesn’t because she's the one standing here covered by nothing but a thin pair of pale pink panties and a dangling cross, and she's the one with the pebbled nipples and the prickled skin flushed red with desire. The one weak at the knees with a lump in her throat and a pounding in her chest. 

_She's_ the one being brave, being desperate, being vulnerable.

But when she steps closer, closer so that her lips are inches from his neck and she can see his pulse jumping under his skin and smell the fear in his blood, his hands close around her waist and his thumbs, big and rough, drag circles over her hips while his fingers press hard and heavy against her back.

And when she looks up, there's worry in his eyes and she thinks that maybe, just maybe they’re mirroring hers. And when she sees the raw lust, the want, the need, the begging, she knows they are. 

It’s been long.

It’s been _so_ very long. 

An image of Zach comes to her. Zach mouthing at her knee, Zach laughing at the strawberry shaped birthmark on the back of her neck, Zach and the way he told her she was beautiful. 

_Zach, Zach, Zach._

And she feels bad, bad because she shouldn't be thinking of him while she's here with another man, bad because this is nothing like those times with Zach. Bad because while she's waited months for this, she's waited her whole life for Daryl. 

She knows now there could never be anyone else.

It ain’t even a question.

And she wonders how he’ll be. If he’ll be soft and gentle like he was the first night or forceful and demanding like he was the cold morning she wrapped her legs around him in the hall and he shoved himself against her, his hand rough at her breast.

She kisses him first. She has to, because she can't stand the stretched silence, can’t ignore the tight bubble in her chest that threatens to choke her. She’s gentle. Light. It would even be chaste if she weren't standing here loose limbed, flesh bared, heat gathering between her legs. 

They've kissed before, fiercer and harder than this, but even so he sucks in his breath and his hands tighten hard enough to bruise.

And she can smell him, leather, the hint of cigarette smoke - even though it’s been months since he lit up - and something else, something decidedly male, something decidedly him. And she loves it because it makes her feel safe. And she loves it because it also makes her feel vulnerable.

And she loves the blue of his eyes, the scruff of his chin, his heartbeat against her breast.

And she loves the way he's looking into her eyes. Like she's the only thing in the world, the only thing worth looking at. The way he's always looked at her. 

_Was there even time before the prison fell? She can't remember, she doesn't think there was._

And she kisses him again, still chaste, still gentle and this time his lips soften on hers and the rub of his thumbs quickens. And she wonders what he's thinking when she eventually pulls away to catch her breath. If he’s also remembering that night he nearly took her up against the wall or maybe the first night on the couch when she was disappointed he didn’t. Or maybe he's thinking of last night and all the nights before that when they caress and touch each other silently and pretend that it's all erased in the morning light. 

And then he draws her closer, the slight increase of pressure on her hips enough to make her gasp and he puts his mouth on hers, still gentle, still quick as if he's testing her, checking to see that this is what she means, what she wants. And a laugh bubbles inside her because she's standing here almost naked but he's still unsure, after everything. After all those nights, after all those whispered secrets, after the funeral home, after "oh". 

And his kisses are soft and his mouth is warm.

And she knows he’s scared out of his mind.

And she is too.

When she steps backwards half onto the pillows, half on the floor, he lets go immediately and looks down. Not at her face, not her breasts, not her skin. But at his boots, the pillows, the puppy sleeping in the corner. A naughty child caught peeping. 

_Bad boy, bad dog._

And she takes a breath and says his name and his eyes snap from the floor to her face so fast, that she thinks he's trying to miss out all the bits inbetween.

"Daryl," she whispers. "Daryl, look at me."

He opens his mouth, closes it again, mimics the gesture in his hands.

"Look at me."

_(Don't you think that's beautiful?)_

She needs this. She can't explain why, but she does. She needs him to see, to know, to decide.

He says her name and his voice is strained, choked, “You don’t have to…”

But she does. She really, really does.

She takes his hand, noticing how hard he’s concentrating to keep his eyes on her face, that his gaze has still not dropped to her chest, her flesh.

“I know,” she tells him, voice dropped to a low whisper. “I want to.”

She kisses his hand ... was that too forward? And then places it - warm, rough, calloused - on her breast. That was definitely too forward. She’s not sure where this confidence is coming from, why it’s chosen now to be this reckless, but it’s like a roar in her head, an ache between her legs, a yearning that she knows she’s powerless against.

And she knows he feels it too, can still remember the way her blood sang when he wrapped her legs around him in the hall and she felt hard need between them.

“It’s ok,” she says and her voice is calm as his fingers spasm against her. It almost seems involuntary until she feels his thumb swipe across her skin, over her hard nipple. “Look at me.”

And he does. And his hand stutters at his side and he bites his lip so hard that when she leans in and kisses him again, he tastes like blood. Blood and need and sweat.

And then he opens his mouth to her, to the wet stroke of her tongue as her hands fist in his hair and she tastes him, tastes him like he’s tasted her. And he’s warm and wet and heady. And his kiss is a little sloppy, a little awkward. 

He groans when her hands drop to brush his chest, those hard collarbones she can’t seem to stop touching, fingers running gentle trails over his shoulders, down his arms, over his knuckles and then all the way up to his neck again to pull him closer, to kiss him harder, deeper. His hand contracts on her breast again, briefly his tongue is forceful, demanding in her mouth, desperate. And then in the same movement, he goes still, pulling back, breathing raggedly. She stops and looks at him, like she did earlier, earlier when she didn’t know the taste of his mouth, the roughness of his hand.

“Ok,” he rumbles, more to himself than to her and it sounds like he’s giving himself permission. He says it again and seems more confident. She nods, short and sharp, like she knows what just happened. He nods too. Like they have an agreement. His hand leaves her breast, travels to her face, cups her cheek. She thinks he’ll kiss her lips but he bring his mouth to her neck instead, breathing in deeply and she can’t decide if he’s being bold or shy as he plants clumsy, nervous kisses across her pale skin. She didn’t expect this. She doesn’t know why not.

When Beth was 13 Maggie told her she had a “male-centric” view of sex. She can’t remember why. She knows they were sitting in Maggie’s bedroom during summer break trying on vampy make-up and high heels - the type their father would never let them wear - and whispering about boys. She didn’t understand at the time, she thought Maggie was just trying to be all worldly and educated, showing off her newfound college wisdom by trying to make her little sister feel stupid and naive. But now those words - male centric - come back to her, back to her as Daryl’s graceless kisses burn her skin, as his awkward touches make her gasp. 

Maggie’s explanation was kind of weird, rote in a _Seventeen Magazine_ kind of way: _make sure he’s good to you; you have needs too; his finish didn’t necessitate yours nor the end of the experience_. Angry, she told Maggie to be quiet, that she didn’t want to know about the dumb stuff she learned at her dumb college and she stormed out - as much as anyone can storm in kitten heels - face covered in black eyeliner and carmine lipstick. God’s honest truth, she was mortified at having this conversation with her sister. Mortified that Maggie was obviously telling her she was no longer a virgin, mortified that Maggie even wanted to talk about this beyond the ins and outs of straightforward reproduction. She was so young, so childish, but now a small part of her wishes they’d spoken a little more, wishes they’d spoken more frankly about men and sex and how it’s not all about babies for girls and orgasms for boys. 

But only a small part. The problem is though she’s not sure it would’ve helped because she’s not thinking about this in terms of sex or fucking or making love. Maybe because this seems bigger than a roll in the hay, clandestine kisses behind her Daddy’s barn at the farm, a whispered sigh in a drafty prison with a doomed man. It’s about relief and release, about putting old lives to bed, about accepting this thing that started burning between them outside a cabin from the past a million years ago. Maybe she’s making it into something bigger than it is, but she doesn’t think so. Regardless, right now, in her mind the whole idea of needs, pleasure, getting off is secondary, a byproduct of something else. Something bigger.

He strokes her neck lightly with his fingertips.

Apparently he didn’t get the memo. 

He's like a boy in love and this is what he wants for her. Either that or he's more experienced than she thought, that unconscious deftness of hand and mouth she noticed that first night, surprising her again. But she doesn't think so. 

Daryl Dixon ain’t no Casanova.

And yet, he's touching her soft and slow, planting staccato kisses on her skin, watching how her milky flesh flushes and pebbles under his rough hands, testing, learning, nervous and slow, but oh so eager to please.

It surprises her. He might not be whipping out the candles and scattering the room with rose petals. There’s no cheesy smooth jazz in the background, no champagne. He isn’t worshipping her like the hero in some bad romance novel. Maybe that will come later, when they're both sweeter. When they have a moment to catch their breath, to get clean before getting dirty. Maybe that won't come at all and they'll be dead before dawn.

There's another moment of hesitation when she takes his hand and pulls him down onto the pillows. But he follows, kicking his boots off and kneeling in front of her, the firelight catching the shine of his eyes and rippling patterns over her naked flesh. She wonders what he sees, a woman with small breasts and narrow hips, too few curves and skinny legs. 

She wonders what kind of women he's had before. If they were prettier, curvier, more experienced and less broken. She wonders if he's hoping for rougher, faster. If he'd prefer her on her knees...

But that's the crazy part of her mind, crazy because this is Daryl. And she knows him, knows how he holds her and touches her even when his hands are hard on her and she's biting at his lips. How he cares for her and yes, she can say it even if he can't, how he loves her.

He reaches out, thumbs her shoulder and his hand is tan and rough against her skin. And she closes her eyes as he pushes her down into the pillows, so that he's looming above her in the semi-darkness.

He's tender, or at least he tries to be as he moves over her, mouthing at her neck, kissing her small breasts shyly, tentatively, before planting his elbows on either side of her head and kissing her lips. His kisses are deliberate, wary even, but hungry, his need and urgency betrayed by the open mouthed way he embraces her. He kisses her for a long time - at least hours, maybe days, more than likely it's decades - so long, she wonders if this is enough for him, if the taste of her tongue is all he needs, as if it would satisfy him.

Well, it wouldn't satisfy her no matter how much of a gentleman he's trying to be now, no matter how he's trying to shift his weight on her so as not to let her feel the bulge of his cock against her thigh.

She adjusts beneath him, parting her legs so that he has to move to the space between them. So that he has to press down against the heat at the apex of her thighs.

"You sure?" His voice is a rumble next to her ear.

She kisses him, hopes that is answer enough. It is, because he kisses her back, drawing her tongue into his mouth, licking across her teeth and she thinks she'll go out of her mind with how much she wants this, with how hard she's concentrating on not rocking her hips against his, on not reaching between them to grab him where he's hard and hot. 

Instead, she keeps her hands firm on his back, nails digging into the scars she knows are already there. She thinks for a moment she’ll make new ones. New ones to cover the old. She wonders if her scars will heal his, if he’ll let them. He heaves a little on top of her and even though she can’t see him all that well in the semi-darkness she knows he has that old spooked look. The one that says “I love you and get the fuck away from me” at the same time. 

She’s chooses not to see the last part.

His breathing is uneven as his hands tangle in her hair.

"I … I don't wanna hurt you," he whispers, pulling away slightly, and he’s only half talking about what they’re doing here and now.

And she loves him for it. Loves him for the tenderness he shows her, loves him for the guileless way he touches her, the sweetness and the bitterness of him.

"Then don’t," she answers. “Then don’t hurt me.”

He watches her for a moment, and even though his face is mostly shadows, she starts to feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny. 

“Be selfish Daryl,” she tells him and his eyes widen.

And suddenly she can’t stand any more of his wary kisses. She grabs his hair, it's a little greasy but she doesn't care as she kisses him fiercely, hand snaking between them to loosen his belt where it digs into the tender flesh of her belly. He groans as her hand brushes the hard planes of his stomach, muscles tough, body taut, skin smooth and scarred by the world he lives in now and before.

She whispers a curse against his mouth as his shaking fingers find their way across her hip, along the crease of her thigh, ghosting across the damp fabric of her underwear so lightly she wants to scream.

She swears again as he moves his hand away.

He grins awkwardly, attempts a joke. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

A vision of her dead mother, rotted, decayed, stinking of maggots and putrefied flesh, grabbing at her arms, yellowed teeth snapping, biting, devouring comes to her. It’s agonising and almost immediately followed by the sight of her father on his knees blood spurting from his neck as his corpse collapses into the sandy grass.

She stills and Daryl looks away.

She can’t hold on to all the badness all the time. 

She lets it go.

He doesn’t.

He’s already pulling away, already apologetic, but she grabs his shoulders, wrenching him back fiercely, angling her hips until his hand is pressed against her, into her heat and her wetness, into the place that is all her and all pleasure and all desire.

It's his turn to curse and hers to grin.

“No,” she tells him. “No.”

And somehow he understands what she means even though she doesn’t. Not really.

She pushes thoughts of those they’ve lost from her mind and focuses on him. On them. On what they’re doing. On what they’re trying to achieve even though she really has no idea. His sweetness has thrown her off. But she doesn’t know why. He was always going to be sweet. He was always going to be this way with her.

His movements are light, gentle but his breathing is harsh and ragged in her ear as his fingers slip under the fabric of her panties. He doesn’t touch her at first, so she waits, quiet and still. A little mouse biding its time. Except she’s not a mouse. Not after today, not after the last few weeks. She’ll never be a mouse again. She wants him to touch her, to _know_ her. Dares him to understand how much she wants this, how much she wants him. He hisses and bows his head as he skims the wetness between her legs, as his hand presses down on her. She buries her face in his neck, teeth ghosting against his shoulder.

She hears him breathe her name as his fingers start to move over her, inside her. It’s sore, uncomfortable, his probing ungentle, inexperienced, rougher than she thought. She adjusts, half wanting to pull away, and suddenly his touch becomes easier, smoother as she lets go of the fear and gives herself over to him. 

“You alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she breathes as his trembling fingers continue to move.

And then his mouth is on hers again, his tongue pressing against hers. He’s still going slow, slower than she would like. But the heat between her thighs is blossoming and she worries she'll come undone right there and then.

His strokes are a little uneven, a little broken but she moves her hips gently in time with him to help him find a rhythm, holding his wrist tightly like she knows what she's doing, like she has the answers.

She doesn’t think she fools anyone.

Even so, he learns fast, between his soft kisses and gentle touches. And when he asks if he's doing it right, if she likes it, he's earnest and vulnerable and the sweetest man in the world.

And tells him that yes, yes he is and yes, yes she does, and the blood is already roaring in her ears and her hips are lifting off the pillows and she's clawing at him and rocking against him and she worries that she doesn't want him to see her like this. 

Except that she really does.

She thinks he's more surprised than her when she comes, thinks he didn't expect it, but her climax rolls through her like sunshine and moonlight and liquid fire and the next thing she knows he's covering her cries with his mouth. 

And his hand, still seated between her legs, is too much, and she grabs his wrist and shoves it away.

She lies there trembling for a moment before he touches her cheek and it takes a second for her to remember to relax, to become languid and loose limbed, to quiet the heat in her blood and be aware of anything other than the wetness of his fingers on her face, the smell of her on his hands.

She guesses she isn't hard to please.

And when he kisses her again he's still slow but no longer wary, no longer shy.

He rises to his knees to look at her, across the expanse of her, taking her in, eyes roaming over the meagre curves she has, breath hitching as his thumbs chase her harder edges and then her softer ones. And his hand travels from her thigh and loops through the waistband of her panties. He looks to her for permission and for a moment she's lost in his eyes before she nods and he slips the pink cotton off, laying a kiss on the inside of her knee so that his beard tickles and mouth soothes.

He mumbles something against her skin and she thinks he's telling her she's beautiful. 

And then he looks at her, really looks at her, her pale nipples, her skinny hips, the soft, soaked hair between her legs.

And even through the fog of her recent climax, she suddenly feels insanely aware that she’s now completely naked and he’s completely not. 

“Daryl,” she says, looking at him pointedly.

“Yeah,” he says, and even though it’s his answer, he manages to make it sound like he’s giving himself permission again. “Yeah.”

He reaches for his buttons as she sits up to undo his pants. But he flinches slightly as her hand brushes against him. And then kisses her as if he’s trying to hide his discomfort, hands travelling gently up her thighs, her hips, her ribs. His breath hitches as he thumbs the curve of her breasts, big hands tightening on her sides and she realises he’s trying to distract her. She realises that he’ll do this all for her and expect nothing in return. 

That’s not going to happen.

Calmer now, easier, focused she grins against his mouth.

“You gonna let me see or not?” she asks lightly. “Or are you the only one allowed to have a look?”

He leans his forehead on her shoulder and chuckles softly and it's the small break in the tension that they need. This is a better joke.

“Missed your sass, girl,” he says. He's said this before, said it often. She wonders if it's code for something else. Something bigger.

_(You know)_

She tells him she missed him too. It _is_ code for something else. Something bigger.

And he looks like he's holding back a sob when he runs his fingers through her hair and she can swear his eyes are glassy.

And suddenly he's pliant under her hands and he kisses her again, long and deep and his tongue is hot and wet and it feels like he wants to taste all of her, crawl inside her and never see the light of day again. And even though she started this with a dropped shirt and a plea in her eyes, he's the one begging. 

She pushes him back so that he's on his ass, straddling his legs and before he can think, before she can think, before she can allow her shyness to get the better of her and she withers under his heavy gaze - because _he's_ not acting shy any more, not even a little bit, his eyes are on her, on her breasts, on her hips, on the wet juncture of her thighs - she reaches to unbutton his shirt and when his hands close over hers, stopping her, she tells him to trust her, that it'll be ok. And he says he does, and he looks so earnest it breaks her heart. 

She kisses his cheek and then his brow and he nods and rubs his thumb over the scar on her wrist.

And she wants to cry and laugh but she does neither as she pushes the shirt off his shoulders. 

The scars on his back are worse than she remembers, hardened ugly lines of dead skin criss-crossing broad smooth flesh and she feels a sob form in the back of her throat that someone would to this to him. To the man that he is now and the frightened child he was then. 

And he tells her it doesn't matter and she whispers that it does. And the firelight flickers over his skin and make his scars look like liquid memories of silver and gold. And she wants him to understand he's special. Special and beautiful and important. Special to her. Every part of him, from the broad expanse of his shoulders and the carved tightness of his belly to the wreck that is his back and flecks of grey in his beard.

Briefly she thinks they’ll need to talk about this … sometime, any time, another time. Not now. 

There's a scar on his chest too, it’s short and ugly, puckered, discoloured flesh above his right nipple and she bites her lip and pushes thoughts of how it got there out of her mind. 

She chances a look at him but his face is unreadable and she’s acutely aware that she’s never been more vulnerable. 

And neither has he. 

The long healed laceration is rough and she runs her fingers across it gently and then because she’s decided to throw caution to the wind she leans into him to plant a tentative chain of kisses on the same path. He stiffens for a second beneath her, hands fluttering on her hips, like he doesn’t know how to touch her, like he’s gone wary again. The moment draws out for too long and she thinks she’s overstepped the mark, pushed him too far. And then he moves his hand from her hip, fisting it into her hair, holding her to him, breath comes out in heavy puffs as he kisses the top of her head, cradling her against him. And she decides that one day, by God’s grace, she’s going to kiss every inch of every single scar on his entire body and then some day, when she’s done that enough he’ll remember this, this time, this tenderness, this desire instead of the hate, pain and rage that marks him. 

When he takes her hand, she looks up thinking he intends to move her, to lie her down beneath him again but he doesn’t, just intertwines their fingers like they did so many millennia ago in a cold field of even colder graves. And then his eyes lock on hers. It’s that look, that combination of fear and hard determination, a look that defies her to drop her gaze, to pull her eyes away from his. It would be easy and it wouldn’t mean anything. She could press her lips to his neck, his cheek, his mouth even and things wouldn’t go any differently, but she won’t. She won’t because she gets it and it’s huge for him. 

His eyes never leave hers as he raises her wrist to his lips and plants one, just one gentle, scruffy kiss on the faded white line that she tries so hard to hide.

_(I never cut my wrists just to get attention)_

She doesn’t need to ask, it’s the most intimate thing he’s ever done. She knows because even though she can hear his heart hammering in his chest, and his eyes have a wild, unnerved look as if he’s suddenly petrified that he has done something wrong, he won’t look away.

This is how he shows himself, this is how he loves.

She touches his face, thumb running over his jaw, brushing the wetness of his lips, the prickles of his beard. She whispers his name and he pulls her into him, arms tight around her, hands splayed on her back. He says something in her ear, something she can’t make out over the blood thrumming through her veins and the gruff rumble of his voice, but before she can ask him, his tongue is in her mouth, lips pressing hard on hers. It will be her only regret, never hearing his words. He’ll wave it away tomorrow, whatever tomorrow may bring. Maybe he’ll spook and wave her away too, but no, not now, not tonight. Tonight he’s just Daryl and tonight they’re just the only two people left on earth. 

Still kissing her, he moves, almost lifting her completely to lie her down on the pillows. There’s no hesitation as he removes the last of his clothing, jeans, socks, underwear discarded as if it is nothing, as if it's not armour any more. She chances a look between his legs where he's hard and heavy, where he's ready and the sight of him makes her tremble.

And then he's crouching over her, big hands rough on her thighs.

“You sure?” he asks.

She bites her lip and nods.

“I’m sure. You sure?”

He looks a little incredulous for a second, but he meets her eyes and the expression leaves. She’s not sure why, but he suddenly looks grateful, like she’s done something for him no one has ever done before. And it has nothing to do with fucking.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he tells her, his voice low and earnest, a little strained, a little sad and then he snorts. “Course, I’m sure girl. Christ."

She knows it’s bravado, Daryl trying to get Daryl back. But she’s touched something inside him, unlocked another layer, discovered the sweetness within. Whatever happens, this will be something that stays with them forever.

He places a gentle hand on her hip, thumbing the jutting edge of the bone. His skin is coarse and calloused reminding her that somewhere she’s still soft, still smooth, still feminine instead of hardened and dirty. 

He swears, his mouth is filthier than hers. His mouth. That he kisses her with. His hand grips her thigh pressing it outwards. Wide. Open. And looking down at her he frowns, chewing his lip. For a moment, she thinks he’s going to press his lips to the too hot flesh between her legs. 

For a moment, she knows he considers it before he gets in his own way. 

But then his fingers tighten on her leg and it’s sore enough to bruise. He kisses her hip, licks it a little, mouth ghosting close to her dampness, before making his way to her lips - tongue rough on her belly, her nipples - and positioning himself between her thighs.

She shivers.

He looks at her, he doesn’t need to say anything. She’s long since learnt to read his eyes, to understand the set of his jaw, the slant of his brow.

She nods, once. Another short, sharp, no nonsense nod that she hopes conveys all the anticipation she’s feeling and a great deal more confidence. She’s Beth. Daughter, sister, friend, carer, fighter, killer, warrior. Now just Beth. Just Beth with her sweet voice and blue eyes, just Beth with her good heart and her spine of steel. Just Beth. Or maybe just a lover.

She reaches between them to line him up and he gasps as she wraps her hand around him, as she rubs the hardness of him, as her fingers find him thick and throbbing. And she wants to touch him and taste him and wishes they had more time. 

_If only they had more time._

And then he covers her hand with his, pushes at her thigh. Her eyes widen as he eases into her. He’s careful, he’s attentive. Maybe even a little too careful. Maybe even a little too attentive. It makes her feel shy. It also makes her feel special. And she can’t decide which one is more powerful. Even though this started out as a way to … she doesn’t know what any more, his uncertainty, his humility, his respect, the way he hesitates gives her the spark of hope that he won’t freak out when they’re done, that this means something to him. That she hadn’t misunderstood his look and unintelligible rumble back in the funeral home, even if she’d been too surprised to respond. She hopes that if, no, _when_ they make love again, they can do it without all this madness running through her head, that she’ll be free to lose herself in him without fear. He’ll be free to relax, to trust her and himself as they move through this together.

_One day, when they have more time. More time than all the time in the world._

She breathes deeply, looking away, a cautious hand against his chest stilling him, as she takes a moment to adjust to him, to grow accustomed to his body inside hers.

_It’s been so long._

“You ok?” his voice is a hoarse whisper.

She nods, even though it stings, and he wraps a hand around the back of her knee, tugging her leg slightly higher, slightly wider, filling her completely.

He groans as he rests his weight on his elbows either side of her head, arching against her, caressing her cheek with his thumb. She breathes slow and deep, shifting her hips slightly before relaxing and giving herself up to him fully. She concentrates on the feel of him inside her, the way he stretches and warms her, an ache that makes her wrap her legs around him, hands gripping the hard muscle in his arms as his skin moves across hers.

She likes his blue eyes, focused, clear, but somehow calm, somehow content. She watches his lips lingering above hers, the slight lopsided smile.

When he kisses her it’s slow and gentle. Ridiculously so when you consider how hard and deep he’s buried inside her, but with Daryl it’s always been the little things, the small excesses that makes life about living and not just surviving. He’s the guy that brings the doll when he’s looking for baby formula, the guy that finds a piece of jasper when he’s hunting for life-saving medication, the guy that kisses you sweetly while he fucks you hard and dirty.

She touches his face and he turns his head to brush his lips across her palm. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, bowing his head to her shoulder and it sounds like something he’s been wanting to say forever even though he's just said it.

She wants to thank him, but her voice isn’t working and all she manages is some unintelligible sound that against all logic he seems to understand.

And then he starts to move against her. His thrusts are thorough, deliberate, a little too hard, a little too sharp but undoubtedly more about her than him and she suddenly understands Maggie’s words about male-centric sex. Her experience may not be vast and she doubts his is either, but he’s got it into his head to treat her right, as right as he can, and she finds that soothing. Despite their differences, despite his hesitation, he’s gone out of his way to make this about her, even though she’s the brazen one, the forceful one. And she wants him to know that’s important. Important in the grander scheme of things, but also just important. To her. In fact she almost feels guilty that she hasn’t done more to alleviate his own inner demons. She doesn’t have to wonder if he has any. 

She turns her face to kiss his cheek and then his mouth. She wants to say something but she doesn’t know what. All the options frighten her. In the end she tells him she wants him, she wants only him. Even in mid thrust she can see his surprise, his relief. 

“Beth,” he breathes and it’s all he needs to say. For now, it’s enough and it feels like heaven.

She grips his shoulders tightly and he hisses as her nails dig in but she can’t be sure if that’s pain or pleasure. All she’s sure of is him, his movements, his hands, his lips, his body pressed to hers. She’s seldom seen him like this, this tenderness. She’s always associated him with fighting, with aggression, not to her, not to his family. But as someone who will get his hands dirty, as someone who’s not complete without a crossbow or a gun. 

_(Is that what you think of me?)_

But this? This now? This focus on her. It’s new. She wonders if he’s always like this when he makes love. Part of her wants to think this is just for her. Part of her wants to believe she’s tapped through the awkwardness that is Daryl and found something undiscovered inside. 

It’s silly.

She doesn’t care.

They deserve this, both of them and she’s not going to agonise over it. If that makes her selfish, makes her possessive, she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care at all. Maybe she will tomorrow or the next day but right now with him all she wants to know is the sensation of him inside her. His lips caressing her neck, his hands, tangled in her hair.

And then she feels that tightening from earlier, her body tensing, her knees pressing hard against his hips as her back arches.

She says his name but it doesn’t sound anything like she remembers it. She swears she hears a chuckle as she moves his hand from her face and pushes it awkwardly between them until he understands what she wants and his thumb presses down against where she's swollen and wet. And she knows he's inexperienced and she knows they need practice but she also knows her blood is raging and it won't take much to push her over the edge.

“Ok?” he asks.

She nods, gasping and looks back at him bewildered, but for all the world he has a small lopsided smile on his face that's equal parts self-satisfaction and awe. And she smiles back and her heart feels broken and she doesn't know why, but it's like the bubble in her chest was filled with bittersweet sorrow and it's close to bursting. 

And she reaches up to touch his cheek to pull him down for a kiss, wedging his hand uncomfortably between them, the hand that plays the ache between her thighs, that soothes and intensifies it.

When he pulls back his eyes tell a story, they always have, They’ve always shown another side of Daryl. And now despite the smile gracing his lips, despite his fingers drawing spirals of pleasure on her, his eyes are earnest, flickered with concern … tenderness … fear and something else. 

And she wonders what he sees on her face. If he sees her desire for him, if he sees how much she loves him.

 _You should tell him,_ she hears a voice inside her head. And she knows she should, but she's lost in his movements, in his eyes and she's lost her words and her voice and anything outside of this moment.

 _You should tell him._

_Maybe, maybe when there's more time._

He’s biting down hard on his lip and it’s a look she familiar with, one she’s seen often with Jimmy, less so with Zach. And she knows it'll take very little to push him over the edge, that he's close and concentrating hard not to tip over before her.

It’s that juxtaposition, the arrogance and the sweetness, the tough outside and the mushy inside that destroys her, that shatters her heart. The fact that one hand teases between her legs but the other holds hers and squeezes reassuringly. He’s all she’s ever wanted and nothing like what she thought. It scares her and comforts her. And she wonders if it will always be like this with him, this overload of emotions that keeps knocking her sideways, or if it really is just the day, the week, the last two and a half years. It’s so irrational, so crazy that he, Daryl Dixon, is inside of her. This man, this broken, beautiful, wonderful, frightening, ridiculous, magnificent, fucked up man. 

And she wants to laugh and she wants to cry and she wants to scream and she wants to sing and she wants, and she wants and she wants...

And then the bubble bursts and she unwinds underneath him, the taut spiral fracturing under his fingers, leaving her to go spinning off into a world where only he can follow, where only the two of them and this perfect moment exist. She cries out his name loudly - this time it sounds like his - and is vaguely aware that he’s covering her mouth with his palm even as she shivers and his thrusts grow harder and faster, less rhythmic inside her as she comes, as she feels his lips and teeth clamping down on her neck, the sweat of his exertion dripping onto her chest, down the valley between her breasts, pushing that silver cross into her skin. She wants to hold him everywhere, touch him everywhere, but their limbs, their hands, their kisses are all in the way. And she's still spinning but somehow has the faculties to press her legs down hard around his waist, bend slightly to meet his movements so his thrusts become shorter and swifter. 

“Jesus, Beth,” he groans against her ear as he tries to withdraw from her.

“No,” she breathes as his hand softens over her mouth. “Please don't. Please don't."

She's knows it's dumb and stupid and reckless but she can't bring herself to care and neither can he. It'll be ok, somehow it'll be ok.

He jerks awkwardly, so uncomfortably that it hurts, burns, aches as he lets out a soft moan and comes inside of her, body rigid, hands trembling against her flesh. And he's saying her name - _Beth, Beth, Beth_ \- and it sounds like a sob and it sounds like praise and he thrusts one, two, three more times viciously, her one hand cupping his head, holding him against her shoulder, the other pressed against the demon tattoos on his back as she waits for him to go slack. 

And he's still saying her name when he does. 

And he's kissing her neck and her shoulder and his hands are in her hair, on her face, on her breasts.

His breathing is still heavy when he rolls them both onto their sides, arms tight around her, grounding her, stopping her from not only falling off the pillows but from just falling into whatever lies beyond this moment.

She's grateful that he keeps her tethered, keeps her from floating away. She hopes she does the same for him. 

She finds she can’t look at him as his breathing slows, even though he’s still inside her, even as the stain of their orgasms dry on her thighs. She burrows against him, resting her forehead against his chest, trying to make herself small and silent and inconspicuous, listening to the emptiness, the puppy snores, their heavy breathing. He runs a hand through her hair and then settles on her waist. She’s grateful that he hasn’t said anything. She’s not scared but thinking back to how brazen she’s been, she feels more than a twinge of embarrassment. So she’s still, pressed against him, body shaking as her sweat, his sweat, cools on her skin and the heated metal of the cross lies between them.

She thinks its only a few minutes later but she’s not sure - in the new world and especially in this newer one her and Daryl have created, time is more fluid, less defined - when she feels him shift and withdraw from her. It’s a relief and a disappointment and she misses him already. She chances a glance at him. He looks a bit spooked, his eyes slightly too wide, his mouth slightly too hard.

“Cold?” he swallows loudly.

She nods.

“Shoulda said something girl,” he chides gently.

He sits up slowly and she takes a moment to admire him, his muscle, his skin, the smooth lines of his torso and the sharp cut of his hips. She feels lucky and happy and silly and almost smug when he wipes her down with his shirt.

"Probably need to wash that," he says, tossing it onto the floor.

"You think?" She answers and immediately regrets it for being too soon. But he snorts and reaches around her to pick up the discarded quilt pulling it over them before settling back down and tugging her into his side.

They’re quiet, watching the dying firelight, the snow now falling a little heavier outside. 

Ain't Georgia weather at all...

She wonders if they will fall asleep now or if he’ll want to talk. She doesn’t know which she’d prefer. 

She breathes him in, the musk of his sweat, the metallic tang of blood. He kisses the top of her head before resting his chin against her.

“Ok?” he asks.

“Mmmm.” 

“Beth, I…” he starts and she looks up at him and he stops.

So it’s talking then. 

But he’s quiet again and she chews her bottom lip. He looks away from her face, over her shoulder towards the door. There’s nothing there. 

She shifts closer to him, and he turns so that their bellies are touching, cups the back of her head, pushing her tight against him. 

“Daryl,” she whispers and part of her hopes he doesn’t hear her, doesn’t acknowledge it but he looks down at her. “You ok?”

He takes a deep breath and nods and he looks so serious, she wants to laugh. But she doesn’t. She’ll never laugh at him. Not like this. Not here, not now.

“It’s ok,” she tells him and he nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah I know it is.”

He only half believes it, she can tell. 

She kisses him on the lips softly and he hesitates before giving himself over to her, one hand caressing her face.

She smiles and he does too.

He runs his index finger down her arm. His touch is light, tickling almost and it gives her goosebumps. He smirks.

"Your dad would kill me," he whispers, not looking at her, eyes following the path of his fingers. "Me here with his little girl. He'd put a bullet right between my eyes."

"He wouldn't," she says.

He glances at her, eyes hooded, and she can tell he doesn't believe her.

"He wouldn't," she insists again as his hand slips to the dip of her waist and over her hip.

She touches his face. "My dad loved you Daryl. You were family to him."

"Makes it worse..." He starts and she puts a finger to his lips.

"Stop," she says, a little angry, a little hurt. "Just don't."

His hand makes it's way back up her side, over her arm to the curve of her shoulder, skin sliding over skin.

"Remember that run I went on with you? The only one I was allowed to go on? To that awful medieval strip mall? The one with the flagstones and the candelabras? Michonne was away, Maggie was sick and Carol was too busy getting everyone from Woodbury settled. And you and Glenn got all weird about looking for tampons. Because you two can put walkers down by the dozen but show you a feminine hygiene product and y'all ‘gross, girls have cooties’.”

He nods, smile crooked.

“When I told my Dad I needed to go he said it was ok as long as you were going. Not Glenn, not Zach, not Bob. You. He trusted you. I even told him I’d stay close to Zach…” she trails off, waiting for the sting of his death to find her, waiting for the wave of embarrassment to wash over as she talks about her dead boyfriend while in the embrace of another man. It doesn’t come. It’s quiet. Quiet with the rage, quiet with the hysteria, quiet under the beating of Daryl’s heart.

“Beth?” he prompts gently and she comes back to the here, the now. 

She swallows. It’s easier the second time round.

“He said to me ‘don't you be worrying about Zach now. If you're insisting you want to go on this fool errand you stick with Daryl. You're going in the car with him and you ain't ever going to be out of his sight, not for a second. I don't care if Daryl comes back complaining that you were under his feet like a lost kitten. You're his shadow, you stick to him like glue.’”

His smile is wan. “You weren’t the only one your daddy gave a talking to.”

She lifts her eyebrows and he nods, finger tracing her clavicles before drawing a spiral on her shoulder.

“Yeah, he came to me before we left. Told me that he knew I thought the run was to look for supplies, but my job was to keep you safe. Told me ‘safety starts here, take the Hyundai, not the death trap.’”

"My dad saw to it I didn't get a ride on your bike?" her voice is indignant.

"Yeah."

She pulls a mock angry face and he answers with a shy smile.

"I'll take you on a bike some day. Take you somewhere nice," he tells her, smoothing her hair.

And he will. She knows he will. 

"Do you see though?" she touches the corner of his mouth with her thumb. "My dad? You were like a son to him."

"Yeah, but that was a run. This here," he stops touching her and makes a vague gesture at their intertwined legs. "Me with you. He'd kick my ass. I’d let him. Fuck, I'd help him."

She props herself up on her elbow and looks at him sternly. "You’re wrong. My father was a lot of things but he wasn't stupid. He respected you, he loved you and all he wanted in the world for me was to find someone who would treat me right, the way Glenn treats Maggie.”

His face darkens a little, a tight frown at the mention of their names and she can’t decide if it’s because he’s given up hope of ever finding them or if it’s because he doesn’t like the comparison, the connotation. She decides to ignore it and shoulder through.

“He’d have been happy I was here with you. So stop this nonsense. He always said no one was good enough until someone is. That's how he would feel about this. And I'll bet you a bag of bananas that he'd be happy for me. For us."

"Yeah?" He asks and the frown is all but gone.

"Yeah," she says firmly, with finality.

"Where you gonna find a bag of bananas girl?"

She rolls her eyes and chuckling, he cuddles her back to his chest, kissing the top of her head.

"You're hilarious," she grumbles, secretly pleased, and he chuckles again. 

“It's true though,” she says after a while, kissing his neck gently. “Don't argue with me about my dad, Daryl Dixon. You knew him for what? Two years? I knew him my whole life.”

“Yeah,” he says and he’s serious now. As if he might believe her, as if he’s testing the idea out in his head and it’s not coming back with “insane” written all over it.

She kisses his jaw and shifts so she can mouth at his neck and shoulders and her hands find their way to his hips and flat stomach. His breath is already rattling against her as he moves to kiss her, the brush of his tongue heralding a new ache between her legs. But as her hands slide down his belly, reaching for him, he pulls away.

"We should get some sleep," he says.

"Should we?" She asks and she can feel his grin more than see it in the dying light. 

They don't sleep.

Not until much later, not until it's almost morning.

Instead, he touches her, traces lines over her body, her neck to her shoulder, shoulder to her breast, breast to the dip if her waist, the flare of her hips. 

She's quiet as he does, losing herself to the sensation of his graceless hands, no longer even slightly shamed by her gooseflesh or the blatant wetness between her thighs. 

He pushes her onto her back, down into the pillows, drags a hand from her knee, up her thigh, thumbs her hip and she says please.

_Please Daryl, please._

And he's gentle as his hand slides between her legs, where's she's hot and wet and waiting. And he's tentative as his fingers explore her, trace the folds and dips, skim over the hard nub of her clit and ply the muscles inside her.

Again, it doesn't take much to make her come and she hides her head in his shoulder as she does, while his free hand - the one not pulling searing pleasure from her flesh - rubs her back and he whispers nonsense into her ear.

Later once she's caught her breath, he buries his head between her thighs and he's unskilled and awkward but she shows him what she likes, how she likes it, when to use the flat of his tongue and when not to. And when he sucks her clit into his mouth and laps at her, she feels like her skin is too small and like she's shimmering and shining and turning to liquid as she falls apart under his mouth.

She touches him too, his chest, his nipples, his hard belly and the harder cock below. He groans when she takes him in her hand, covers her fingers with his when she asks him to guide her. But he won't let her take him in her mouth, stops her with kisses and touches and a hand fisted in her hair. 

They have time, he tells her, they have so much time.

And she wishes it were true.

So she straddles him, works her hips hard against his, movements slow and deliberate and his hands cover her breasts and his eyes squeeze shut as he comes and she collapses on top of him.

Before she moves, she tells him she loves him. She really does love him and she sees the shock in his eyes as he shifts her off him and curls his body into hers.

It could almost be dawn outside, she doesn't know, but she's tired and so is he and his hand is heavy on her hip, heavy and comforting.

And just before she falls asleep she's dimly aware of Bo getting off his bed and flopping down on the pillows next to her feet.


	8. Absolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter did not do what I wanted it to do but somehow that's actually ok. However, it also refused proper editing and that's just not. 
> 
> I'm not going to lie, I am not entirely happy but after six weeks I started to get the feeling that this is what this chapter had to be, so I went with it. Be warned this chapter has some heavy stuff. Please check the tags.
> 
> Your soundtrack:  
> Just a kiss - Lady Antebellum  
> Devils and Dust - Bruce Springsteen  
> Mercy in you - Depeche Mode  
> Santa Fe - Jon Bon Jovi  
> Under my skin- Trading Yesterday  
> Dance with you - Live

It’s Bo that wakes him, whining quietly in his ear and snuffling against his neck before scampering to the front door and then back to where they lie tangled in the quilt and each other. **  
**

It takes him a moment to register, to gain his bearings, to remember why he’s lying on a stack of pillows on the lounge floor, why he’s naked and why he’s wrapped around Beth, one hand on her breast, the other pressing against her belly, face buried in her hair, a knee between her legs. It takes him another to realise that it’s light outside, too light, too bright for it to still be early morning, the sun's dappled rays streaming through the window and onto the tan of his arm, the white of hers.

He blinks. His head is pounding. Pounding worse than it did that night they got drunk on moonshine. 

Drunk on moonshine.

Drunk on each other. 

He thinks he must be wasted, wasted and hungover and lucid all at the same time. Pragmatically he knows he's none if these things. Pragmatically he knows he can't be.

But he ain't being real pragmatic right now.

He wonders irrationally if something happened, something bad that made them sleep downstairs, eschew the mattress and their clothes apparently. Wonders why it's so late in the day and why they were up all night.

It's not that it's unusual to wake up with her in his arms. It happens more days than it doesn't. Happens so often that even that awkward morning untangling, the removal of his hand where it's slipped below the waistband of her pajama bottoms to her hips, one morning her goddamned thigh - her _thigh_ for fuck's sake - has become less frightening, more commonplace. 

What is unusual is the nudity, the pillows, the fucking lounge floor and the stupid light from the stupid sun streaming through the stupid window.

And it’s then that his brain does a little flip and makes that connection. It's then he realises why he's drunk and sober and floating and drowning at the same time.

No, it's not a clear picture, not by a long shot. Oh God no, that would be too easy. Or too hard depending on your point of view. It's a mess. A jumble of sounds and pictures coming at him in fragments and waves, spirals and shards, puzzle pieces that make no sense in the fog. It’s Beth and she’s whispering his name, voice deep and husky, thick with something, something another man - a braver man - would swear was lust. And then it’s him and he’s shouting, shouting “Beth Beth Beth” as he looms over her and her legs are twisted around him, clamping down like a vice he never wants to escape. And he knows - he fucking  _knows -_  that it _was_ lust in his voice and her eyes. And he knows that it had to come to this.

He knows.

And she does too.

He sees her standing in the centre of these pillows mostly naked, eyes wide and pleading as she drops her clothes, item by item to the floor, as she shivers and trembles and dares him to look away. 

Dares him.

Like that was even the remotest possibility.

The remotest.

And then it’s his rough hands, tanned and hard against alabaster skin, in her hair, hair that shines like gold and flows like silk rippling over his chest. Her body, firm and sweet, slumped across his, breath coming out hard and fast while her heart beats like a drum, an erotic tattoo in time with his.

He thinks he spent the night fucking Beth Greene. 

He thinks he spent the night inside her. 

He thinks he's going to go off his fucking head.

He swallows and he can still taste her on his lips, on his tongue and that’s a memory too. This time of his head between her legs, her hands in his hair and her body convulsing around his mouth and he thinks how stupid they've been. Stupid and reckless and ridiculous. And there’s a moment he just wants to close his eyes, bury his face in her skin, breathe in her scent of sex and soap and sweat and go back to sleep. Wake up in an easier time. A time when he knows how to handle this and all it’s consequences.

But there's no rest for the wicked. 

Not here. Not anywhere else either.

Bo's whining and licking his ear again, the smell of warm puppy breath tickling his neck and sending a nasty shiver down his spine.

“A'right, a'right,” he says softly as he shifts under the quilt trying not to jostle Beth as he does.

He wants to kiss her shoulder. It's something he does sometimes in the mornings, quick and fluid as he moves to get up. Likes that moment when his rough lips meet her soft skin, imagines it could linger, but he never does, not really anyway.

But not this morning. This morning of all mornings he doesn't want to wake her. Can't have that conversation now, stilted and awkward as it may be. Can't even imagine what he'd say or where he'd look. 

_(Look at me Daryl)_

It's too much and too big and if he wasn't naked and pressed up against her, the first stirrings of his erection against her ass, he probably wouldn't believe it himself. Write it off as a vivid dream, a perverse fantasy.

But it ain't.

Because he is naked and pressed up against her.

And his cock is hard and against her ass.

And he's sticky and so is she.

And he spent the night fucking Beth Greene.

And it's just really fucking important she doesn't wake up now.

His joints are sore and stiff as maneuvers out of her grasp pushing himself onto his elbows and reaching for his discarded jeans. He rolls his shoulder, feeling the muscles crack and pop and he wonders why they were so daft as to sleep on this uneven pile of pillows instead of the bed upstairs. But he suspects it's not only this makeshift bed that has his muscles flaring. 

_God Beth, what have we done?_

Another image of him crouched between her legs flashes through his head, his tongue on her where she's wet and slippery and tastes of heaven and hell, her hands hard in his hair as his dig into the soft flesh of her ass.

And then she said she loved him.

_What have we done?_

He shakes it away, shakes himself out. Ain't no time for that now. No time at all. He can't fall down that rabbit hole. He can't because he'll never claw his way back.

And because Bo's jumping on the spot and whining softly and he knows there's going to be an accident soon if he doesn't hurry the fuck up.

His shirt is nowhere to be found but he remembers how he wiped her down with it and is almost immediately hit with another memory of her hands on his back, on his scars and he quite literally wants to climb out of his own skin at that. 

Climb out of his skin. Or go out of his mind.

He knows he can't do either.

Thinks he might just have to do both.

He glances back at her, half expecting her to be awake and glaring at his marks but she's still asleep, breathing regular, lips still red and swollen and dark love bites marring the pale skin on her neck. Bites in the shape of his mouth.

He thinks he might of got carried away.

He touches the scar on his chest.

He thinks maybe they both did. 

And part of him wants to go back and erase it all. And another part wants to do it all over again.  


Either way he knows he’s screwed. Knows everything's screwed.

_(I guess that's a feelin')_

His hands shake a little as he zips up. Not as much as last night but enough. 

And suddenly he'd give anything to get that box of cigarettes back that he tossed away the day after they found these houses. He’d decided he didn’t need them, decided it wasn’t right to always be fouling up the air around her and fucking up his own lungs. Ain’t no reason to go out any sooner than he should.  


Not now at least.

But he really wants one.

Really, really wants one. If only to give his hands something to do and his mind something else to think about. Something that’s not Beth’s mouth and breasts and skin. Something that’s not the stickiness of their climaxes and feel of her body on his.

He stands and shushes Bo when he lets out a yelp and scampers to the door. There’s a clean shirt hanging over the back of one of the chairs and he grabs it and starts to pull it on but not before he hears a change in her breathing. He glances back at her over his shoulder, fully expecting to see her awake and gaping at his scars now laid bare in the light of day but her eyes are still closed and her hair still a rippling starburst across the pillows, the swells of her breasts exposed above the edge of the quilt. 

He takes a moment to look at her, the way she’s like moonlight and sunshine, pale and golden and pink. He’s always thought she was beautiful, even when they first rolled into Hershel’s farm a million years ago. She may have been nothing but a young, pretty daddy’s girl with too big eyes and the voice of an angel then but there was always something about her that drew people in, drew him in. Maybe at first it was that youthful innocence, the fact that her very existence was a symbol that the world wasn’t done. That there was still hope. Maybe it was just listening to a pretty girl sing them through the darkness, through the death.

And suddenly one day everything changed. 

He tells himself he can’t put a date on it, but the truth is he can. 

October 23rd, a month after they opened the prison gates to Zach and his sweet ride. A month after Andrea, a month after Rick asked him to take over, to lead. And because he was a follower, a pack animal, he did what was asked and led.

Like anyone thought that could have worked. Anyone.

Disease, murder and finally annihilation. He pretty sure he’s not cut out for it. Pretty sure he wasn’t the best choice. He lets himself dwell on this sometimes, lets himself wallow in his failures. Thinks of how they left Zach there at the Big Stop. Left him to die or turn. He's not sure which is worse.

Except he is.

Maybe he should feel guilty. Especially now, especially after last night. Maybe he should feel some kind of shame about Zach beyond not being able to save him and honest to God he wishes he had. But he thinks of Beth and how it's been between the two of them. The touches, kisses, the fact that they sleep in the same bed and pretend it's for protection, all the while using every opportunity they have to touch and explore without touching and exploring. And he just can't feel guilty for loving her.

October 23rd, he knew the date because she kept a calendar and he saw it that morning and remembered it was his Ma's birthday and he'd let himself be sad about it for a while. Let himself think of her blackened eyes and smoky breath. The way she’d touch his hair and tell him he was the best boy. And then he’d closed off those memories, downed the last dregs of his coffee and walked to F block to see about a collapsing support in the fence. Instead he’d found Zach and Beth pressed up against the prison wall, hands in the pockets of her jeans, and a knee between her thighs, while her fingers tangled in his hair.

He can’t describe what he’d felt as shock because it wasn’t. It was more of a realisation, an understanding of sorts that made him look at her differently after that, take note of the sway of her hips and the curve of her ass, the rosebud pout of her lips. And then she’d started spending more time around him too, mainly because of Zach and after that he could never not be aware of her. 

And now, after all these months, after the funeral home, after “oh”, after last night and all the nights before he knows how perfect she is. And it’s like a punch in the gut and a kick in the teeth because he also knows how perfect he is not.

He gets that it’s dumb that the scars bother him. But they do. And it ain't just the marks. Sure they're ugly enough. But it's what they are, how they show the world who he is, what he was. 

He wonders what she thinks, if it frightened her. She's strong. She's so strong. Stronger than him. But still, his scars sit on his back like dark confessions of a darker past. He knows this ain't the first time she saw them, but it is the first time he laid himself bare to her to see. 

A sense of unworthiness chokes at the back of his throat. She shouldn't have anything scarred or tainted. She deserves the boyish charm and smooth good looks of the Zachs and Jimmys of the world. Not some inked up, scarred, older than fuck redneck with nothing to offer and less to give.

Sometimes he wallows in his failures.

Thing is though, in his head he knows this isn't true. He knows he’s still the same smug asshole who just last night was thinking how he has a house and a girl and a pet. How despite everything, including the goddamned apocalypse, he's actually managed to find something good and normal. And not just find it but contribute to it too.

But then he thinks of Beth's naked body and breathy sighs, her small breasts and strong thighs and how he'd touched her and tasted her and he goes out of his head a little. 

Because at the end of it all he's a Dixon and Dixons don't deserve this.

He spent the night fucking Beth Greene. And he doesn't really know what to do with that.

And she said she loved him. 

And he doesn't know what to do with that either.

Her breathing changes and he's almost sure she's awake or close to it but he's already out the door, Bo at his heels, cold gusts of air washing over him and freezing the taste of her on his lips, freezing the memories of last night and all the nights before that.

And it's chill and bright. And he's no longer shaking so badly. And he feels all right.

_He spent the night fucking Beth Greene._

_And she said she loved him._

~

He wants to just walk. Just walk and not think. Just let his head clear, concentrate on the cold and the light and just breathe until he's ready to let last night filter back into his head. But it doesn't work.

Bo makes a beeline for number four's flowerpot, attempting to cock his leg but falling over and resorting to squatting instead. 

Another day and it would be funny.

Not today.

Not when he spent the night fucking Beth Greene.

_She said she loved him._

He tries for some perspective, tries to pin it down and box it away, but the more he tries the more he just thinks of how sweet her kisses were and how her soft thigh felt against his cheek. Or how strong and sure her fingers felt when she wrapped them around him and the strange rush of pride he felt when he made her come. 

He thinks it's the inevitability that scares him, the knowledge that it had to come to this. Since the night she agreed to live with him in that funeral home forever without a thought. It was always going to come to this. There was nothing for it.

It's also the fact that she knew. Even then, even when he didn't.

It doesn’t surprise him now, in retrospect. Hindsight being 20/20 and all that. Guesses that there was no way they’d have ever stayed platonic, but that’s not quite true. It couldn't be just anyone, couldn’t just be the stroke of fate which had them leaving the prison together. Because it ain’t like he’d ever want anyone else. Not after this.

But what about now? Well now, despite the fact that he’s touched her and tasted her, buried and spent himself deep inside her, he’s nervous as all fuck to go back inside that house. To see her, to face her, to talk to her.

_She said she loved him._

So he walks with Bo, letting him sniff every blade of grass, inspect every leaf. Letting time slide away from him, away from all this.

He tells himself they have all the time in the world.

And it’s both the purest truth and the biggest lie.

And it’s that kind of juxtaposition that makes him doubt his sanity. So he shakes his head, clears his mind and scans the yard, checks the walls, focuses outside instead of in.

There’s a walker at the gate - it happens occasionally - and he worries Bo will try and investigate but he doesn’t, stays close and lets out a small, soft growl far more menacing than he should be able to do. He guesses everything grows up faster now. You have to or the world gets you. Preys on the weak and the young. 

“Good boy,” he says gently and Bo wags his tail and shoves his nose into a pile of leaves.

The walker itself is falling apart, rotten and stinking, shattered bones and congealed organs rising out of a rancid pair of pajama pants. 

It’s old. 

An old person, now an old walker and for a moment he thinks this was once someone’s grandma, someone’s nan. Probably made cookies on Sundays or knitted ugly sweaters or something. And it’s fucking sad when you get right down to it. Fucking tragic is what it is. That this old broad who probably lived with five cats and had a knitting circle, attended a church group and had to be home by 5:30 to watch her soaps is now a walking corpse banging on a fortified gate wanting nothing more than to feast on the flesh of the living.

It’s a fucking disgrace and it makes him sick to his stomach. The idea that everyone is worm food always depressed him, but it’s a damn sight better than this. Rotten grandmothers wandering around in the cold, driven only by the desire to consume, to destroy, to gorge themselves on fresh meat.

He wonders about his grandma. His old man’s Ma, a tough old bitch who’d sit on her porch with a shotgun shooting rats in her back garden. He thinks if she were still alive, if she hadn’t succumbed to the stomach cancer decades ago, she’d still be there now. A beer in one hand, boots up on the table, fading cigarettes in an ashtray next to her. A string of pearls her singular nod to excess. Only difference is she’d be shooting walkers and not rats. 

Fucking walkers wouldn’t stand a chance.

Grandma Lila was a good shot.

He looks back to the corpse, he’ll need to put it down before it starts making too much noise, does something dumb like attract others so they end up with a fucking herd outside the house. 

Not that there’s really walkers here. There are obviously, but they are so few and far between. He thinks it’s the cold, knows how lethargic they get when the temperature drops, but even so. He wonders if maybe when Joe and the rest of them made their way through here they cleared the area. But that doesn’t make much sense. Places are too well stocked, mostly untouched.

He shrugs. He can’t worry about this, not now at least. Because if he worries about this, he worries about Joe and then he worries about Beth and then he wants to shove her into that silly little girly car and just drive until they run out of road.  


So he walks to the gate, grabs his knife from his hip and stabs the walker through the head. She crumples quickly, bones almost dust already. He thinks Beth would want a funeral or something, some way to honour her and, if he could, he’d give it to her. But he can’t, because they can’t be burying every walker they find behind this gate. And they can’t be burning all the bodies either because God knows what that kind of smoke would attract their way. He’s sorry though. Regardless of what they can and can’t do, he’s sorry because this old broad shouldn’t just be left to rot in the road. He thinks he’ll ask Beth later what she wants to do. If they should take the body into the field across the road. She’ll have an answer, an idea at least. She always does.

_(I love you Daryl. Only you)_

He realises somewhere that this means he’ll need to talk to Beth and he has a vision of his hands on her breasts and her thighs clenching around his waist as rolls her hips against his.

And he shakes it away. 

_It shouldn’t be this hard,_ he tells himself, _it shouldn’t._

He loves her, he knows he does. There ain’t no question any more. Ain’t no place to wonder. And it’s fucking terrifying. Because sometimes she is fucking terrifying and last night she was the most terrifying of all. And his heart is messed up and his head is still in the fucking stratosphere somewhere and it makes no sense how much he just wants to go into that house and hold her and fall apart waiting for her to tell him it’s all ok.

It ain’t even about what happened last night. Ain’t even about her skin and her eyes, her smell and her taste. It’s just about her and _goddamn fuck_ how much he fucking adores her and how much he needs this to be ok. And how for the first time he realises how fucking stunted he is when it comes to this kind of stuff because he has no clue what the fuck he’s supposed to do with any of it.

He loves her.

And if last night’s breathless confession was anything to go by, she loves him right back.

She said she loved him.

And _fuck_ , that just has to be enough.

Dead grandmas and world gone to shit aside, It just has to be.

~

He hears her inside when he eventually circles back to their house, Bo at his heels. He’s taken his time, walked Bo a little too long, maybe a little too far, stood leaning against the walls, a few more vain attempts at letting the cold air fill him and clear his head. He’s starting to think he might never be sharp again, not after last night. Starting to think that this will just be it and his mind will only ever have thoughts of her in it. He’s ok with that though. Somehow that seems reasonable, understandable. No cause for concern.

She’s upstairs humming when he opens the door, a tune he remembers from the smoky, soggy bars Merle used to take him to. Something about devils and dust and God being on your side. A song about trying to survive. It’s appropriate, maybe a little depressing. 

Bo charges up the stairs towards the sound of her voice and he thinks to himself that he wishes it could just be that very easy for him too. Because that’s all he fucking wants to do really. Go to her, hold her in his arms just long enough to know that everything is ok. That she’s not mad, that he didn’t do anything wrong and hasn’t screwed this thing between them up. That last night can be a one-time thing if that’s what she wants, if that’s what she needs, and that he’ll do his best not to make this weird between them. Because he can’t lose her. Doesn’t she know that? Can’t she see that he’d just be fine with going back to how things were if that makes her happy?

The pillows are no longer on the floor, most stacked back on the couches and the rest she’s likely taken with her upstairs. The scattered clothes are gone too and for a second he’s wildly embarrassed that she’s picked up his semen-smeared shirt.

Wonders if she looked at it, held it in her hands. If she could smell them on it. Their mingled heat between her legs, the sweat of his back.

He should go to her. He knows this. It’s pathetic how he’s standing downstairs, avoiding her like a naughty child. He should at least let her know he’s there right?

_Right?_

“Beth?” he calls from the bottom of the steps. And his voice is cracked, ragged, nothing like how it should be.

For a second he wonders if it's even him.

Maybe she does too because her humming stops but she doesn't respond.

He calls again. "Beth?"

"Yeah," she answers. "I'm up here."

And she sounds ok. Not mad or anything. Maybe a little tentative, a little wary. But there's the hint of a smile in her voice and it's not even hard for him to follow the sound, walk up the steps, down the passage. Linger in the doorway.

_She said she loved him._

She's standing slightly turned away from him, wearing jeans and a wet rush of blonde hair against her back. And the pink tips of her breasts are upturned and pebbled, and her belly is flat and the muscle hidden beneath the skin of her waist, her hips, is strong and sinewy. And briefly he’s looming over her, his hand between her legs and his kisses hot on her skin. And he’s hearing her voice in his head telling him she wants this and she wants him and can’t he see it and why doesn’t he already know and...

_And what the fuck girl? What the actual fuck?_

"Shit, sorry," he says looking away and half backing out the door. Maybe it’s the cold light of day, maybe it’s just the fact that it’s her, maybe it’s just him but he feels like a child caught peeping. Like his gaze doesn’t belong on her. Not now, not like this. He knows it's ridiculous, knows after last night that this shyness is stupid but it's instinctual and he can't shake it no matter how hard he tries.

He realises then that despite his earlier misgivings it may just have been better to wake up beside her, have this conversation when they're both sleepy and sticky and naked and wrapped up in each other. He thinks he would have found it easier then. Maybe they wouldn’t have even needed words and he wouldn’t have been scrambling as desperately as he is now. Maybe there would have just been touches and kisses, a few whispered sighs. But nothing like this. Nothing that feels so _official_.

But the time for that is passed.

Way past.

He guesses his assessment of the situation ain’t that great.

Guesses there was no way it could be.

Either way she's looking at him and there's a smile on her face and her lips are still pink and swollen and her neck is still marked and the little half-moon shaped bruises on her hips he guesses are an exact match for his fingernails.

"Daryl it's ok," she says and he realises he’s staring and his eyes snap back to her face.

_(Look at me Daryl, look at me)_

“It’s ok,” she says again, but this time her voice wavers and she sounds less certain, some of that confidence slipping.

And he knows it is but he wishes, honest to God, that she'd just put some clothes on. Because when she stands here like this, wet and dewy from the shower and there's only a some faded denim between his hands and her flesh, he’s back to thinking he's about to go out of his head. Either that or he might scoop her up and have her against the slatted white cupboards.

He spent the night fucking Beth Greene.

_He spent the night fucking Beth Greene._

And, honest to God, he can't wait to do it again.

And suddenly he’s disappointed when she tugs a loose plaid shirt over her head, even though he’s still of a mind to back out the door. Not that he knows where the fuck he’d go. Not that there is anywhere _to_ go. 

Not that he really wants to leave anyway.

And there’s something interesting in that revelation for him. A defiance against who he was, against the Dixons and who they were. That maybe he’s the one, maybe the only one, who could do something right. The hint of belief in the possibility that there’s a man he could be in all of this. And that man might, just might, _just might_ , be a good man and a kind man. A man that Beth Greene could love.

_She said she loved him._

She did.

He remembers.

She must remember too.

_(You were like me)_

She starts to say something. Stops. Mouth snaps shut. And then she bites her lip and glances to the floor, to her toes, still painted, but now a goofy purple. And it occurs to him that she’s as uncertain as he is. That they’ve swapped places now and she’s shy and he’s the one daring her. And despite last night and despite now, she’s trembling.

It could be worry.

It could be.

But a little voice deep inside whispers that maybe it's anticipation.

And suddenly gets it, gets that she’s just as nervous as he is, that giving herself to him was huge for her, that she put it all on the line and now, well now he’s making it about him and even though he’s only been focused on last night it’s now he’s fucking up. 

And he won't fuck up. Not if he can help it. 

She said she loved him. Maybe it's time he said it back.

And he’s already stepping towards her and her arms are reaching out to him and she's tiny and perfect and he buries his face in her hair and whispers, "Beth, God Beth."

And she shakes a little and she's soft but her arms are strong around his waist and her lips find the skin at the V of his shirt and he feels the hot, wet brush of her tongue against him.

_God my girl._

And he wants to ask if she's ok and if they're ok and if everything is going to be fine and God, oh _God_ , girl what the _fuck_ did we do?

But none of that matters.

Because he can feel her smile against his chest and her trembling isn't so bad anymore. And he wonders why he took so long. Not just last night. Sure, that too. But this morning. Why he didn't just let Bo out quickly, come back, and wake her gently. With kisses and embraces.

Why after so not fucking up last night,

_(please Daryl, please)_

after actually being halfway decent

(he thinks of how she contracted around his fingers that first time, when he hadn't expected it and neither had she)

that he could fuck this up so stupidly and cruelly now.

And he fists a hand into her wet hair, knotted, tangled and tilts her head up to meet his eyes.

And she’s not confident now, that passive determination that dared him to touch her last night gone. She’s something different, something unsure and wary. And he knows she’s waiting for him. Waiting for him to do something. To say something.

And he has no idea what. None at all.

And somehow that’s ok.

So he stares back at her, at her eyes, her open lips, the flash of white teeth. He touches the marks on her neck where they stand out angry and raw against her pale skin and she closes her eyes, lets him run his fingertips over her, lets herself go slack against him as he does. And he wants to soothe them and ease them off her skin but he also wants to make more, mark her again, over and over. Until she’s his.

He thinks she might be already.

_(I love you Daryl. Daryl I love you)_

_Oh God Beth, what have we done? What have we started?_

And where does it end?

Questions. Too many questions.

Too many for him, too many for her.

And he doesn’t want to answer them. Doesn’t care if he ever does. Because it’s not important. Not at all. What’s important is her. And she’s here and she’s with him and she’s safe and she’s not another dead girl.

He runs a thumb across her collarbone, hand sinking into her shirt and curling around her shoulder. When he presses his lips to her skin of her cheek, he’s soft and gentle, touching her as if she’s glass as he trails his mouth down to her jaw and neck, tasting the space where her neck meets her shoulder. And he hisses as her hands tighten on him, as her skin prickles and she presses into him. Presses into him like she wants him to envelop her, like she wants to sink into him and forget where she starts and he ends. 

And then she’s not glass any more because he’s kissing her mouth and he’s hard and forceful, tongue, hot and wet, demanding access between her lips. And she matches him measure for measure, stroke for stroke. And that toughness is back. The calm confidence edged with white-hot need that drove him out of his head last night and threatens to do the same again now. 

And then _Jesus Christ_ , but he _is_ backing her into the cupboard, lifting her off her feet, so that her legs dangle like a rag doll’s for a second before one slides over his hip and the other bends to find purchase on the wood. And her hands are gripping his biceps like claws, so tightly it hurts, so tightly he thinks she’s trying to repay him for the marks on her hips and neck from last night. And his lips are on her jaw, tongue tracing the line to her ear and then dropping to nip at the pale skin of her neck where she’s delicate and smooth and her pulse beats in a rhythm that is neither.

He mouths her name against her skin.

“God girl,” he whispers and she drags him closer, breath hitching in her throat as his mouth finds a sensitive spot near her ear.

One word, one word and he’ll stop. One movement, a sound that isn’t right and he’ll stop immediately, but the sounds she’s making are all so right, so perfect and her skin is so soft against his stubble.

And then she’s saying his name and her voice is cracked and needy and it sounds like she wants to eat him alive. And that’s ok too. There are worse ways to go. Many worse ways.

He considers how it would be to take her right there, flat against the cupboards, her body pushed against him, legs tight at his middle. Wonders if he could. Thinks it’s possible. Thinks she makes him strong, even as she makes him weak. But there are other things, other things he wants to do, other things he wants to know. Things far more pressing than fucking her against the cupboard, things more important and he pulls it back into himself, tries to temper his rough movements, soften his hands and mouth on her skin.

"Last night," he rasps into her neck because he can’t bear to say it to her face. "Last night, did you mean what you said?"

He doesn't know why he asks. He really doesn't. He thinks it's either to hear it again or talk her out of it, both of which are dumbass reasons. But he has to know, has to know if it was just her lust-addled brain talking, if she was just saying what she thought she needed to, what she thought he needed to hear in the moment.

And she goes still against him, body no longer arching, legs slack. And when he looks at her, her eyes harden briefly, only briefly. You wouldn't notice if you weren't looking, if you don't know her like he does. But it's there. It goes before it truly arrives, but it's there.

And he wonders if he's offended her or if it's something else. Something worse. Something like the realisation that well, it _was_ just her lust-addled brain talking, that he is an older than fuck redneck who puts his hands on her when he shouldn't.

Pragmatically he knows he should be past that. That these feelings of inadequacy shouldn't still linger.

But he can't help it.

Because no matter how you look at it, apocalypse or not, there's just no way he should be here with the most wonderful girl to ever exist. 

The chances are a zillion to one and he still waits to wake up.

And yet somehow every morning that he does, nothing has changed. She's still there, wrapped around him or him around her. Her head on his chest.

He guesses he's just waiting for it to end.

But her voice is low when she speaks, not quite the breathy whisper that would make him lose his head, but close.

"You don't have to ask Daryl," she says smoothing a hand over his cheek.

But he does, he really does.

And she purses her lips a little, a tight little smile and she closes her eyes for a second. And it feels like she's blocking him out but when she looks at him again and her eyes are big and blue and holding the pain and the joy of lifetimes she never could have lived, he knows she wasn't. That she was just taking a minute, a moment for herself, maybe the last one before she gives herself over to him.

"It's you Daryl," she says, voice firm. "It's always been you."

And it's all he needs to hear before he covers her mouth with his again.

And she's still sweet and she's still good but there's a toughness to her that he noticed last night, a hard edge that cuts through the sweetness and the goodness and turns it on its head. Sends him spinning sideways and when he falls down, dizzy, she’s there to catch him. Like she always has, like she always will.

_God my girl, my brave, brave girl_

He has the clarity of mind to wonder at this. Wonder at their desperation, their need, the desire to love and want. The desire to fuck now opened like floodgates. 

It ain't a big thing, not at all. But maybe in this world it's the biggest thing. That desire to be human and alive, that desire for life created in that little death.

Briefly this thought stills him. It's not that he's actually put it together in those words, not that his thought process has gone anything beyond being with Beth and being good to Beth. It's more of a feeling, more of an instinctual gnawing and yet vague worry about what they're doing, what they did and what they're going to do in the future.

But both her legs are locked around his hips now and her hands are snaking under his shirt, running trembling across his belly, the line of his hips to the waist of his jeans and he remembers a time like this before. When her mouth was fire and her kisses like brands against his skin, when her hands reached low on his body to caress him through his jeans. He remembers how he pulled away at the sight of his skin on hers, how unworthy he'd felt to see his tanned rough fingers biting into the smooth whiteness of her thigh. 

And yet somehow it still came to this, like fate or destiny or some other metaphysical shit he doesn't believe in. 

_Jesus Beth, Jesus._

The fact is he can't actually believe it's true. Because if he's honest with himself, brutally honest, he knows he's been in love with her since the night they burned the cabin to the ground. Knows that warm feeling that coiled itself in the pit if his belly and took root wasn't just some kind of protectiveness. He fell in love and he knows that now. Even if he didn't then. 

He'd die for her. No question. But it ain't enough because he would always have died for her.

When she reaches for his belt buckle he moves them backwards to the bed where he sits down with a small gasp as she adjusts to straddle his legs, nimble fingers going back to their task at his waist.

And he knows he has to stop her. If only for a second, a moment. Because he has to get the words out. Has to say them before they continue. Has to make sure she understands. Know that while he _is_ an older than fuck redneck who has no business putting his older than fuck redneck hands on her pretty skin that this ain’t something that needs to set the tone for the rest of their lives.

So he pulls his lips from hers, licks his way out of her mouth, across her teeth and over her lips.

And her face is sad, a little hurt and a lot of disappointment when he takes her wrists in his hands, his fingers circling them easily, thumb running along the thin line of scar tissue on the left and he remembers how he'd put his mouth on it the previous night. How even if he didn't have the words he hoped he conveyed that he gets it. That he's starting to at least. 

He can't believe he was that brave, can't believe he's the same man sitting here today, the same smug asshole with a house and a dog and a girl that makes his heart ache.

_She said she loved him._

"Why?" She asks and she's never sounded so southern. Not even at the cabin when he wouldn’t drink with her.

"You sure Beth?" He asks. "We ain't gotta do this. Things can go back to how they were."

She frowns and pulls a hand out to his grip to brush his hair from his face.

"Is that what you want?" She says. "To go back?"

And this is Beth. How she's always been. No stereotypes, No assumptions about him, well maybe one.

_(I've never been in jail, as a prisoner)_

But she gives him this. She always does. This chance to back out and leave. Let's him know this is as much his choice as hers. That there ain’t no shame in it. For the first time there ain’t no shame. None at all. Ain't no one ever done anything like that for him before. 

He remembers the women Merle was always throwing at him, the prostitute he got him when he turned sixteen. It's such a fucking cliche when you think about it. Asshole redneck getting his asshole brother’s cherry popped for his birthday.

 _It'll make you a man,_ Merle had said.

Truth was he ain't felt even slightly more manly afterwards. In fact he'd never felt more like a boy, a boy full of shame, shame and regret. It had been over in seconds and for most of those seconds he hadn't known what was going on. She'd hadn't been old, older than him, but not old. Dead eyes, meth ravaged skin, dry and tanned. She hadn't undressed, hadn't spoken a word and when she left, he'd heard Merle crowing outside the door as he'd struggled to tuck himself back into his clothes and get himself as far away from that semen stained room as he could.

And that's how it had been after that. Merle throwing women at him and him occasionally catching them. The encounters were short, swift, nothing like last night, nothing like that bone-breaking heart-wrenching need that left him breathless. That still does. And it wasn't even just his desire for her. That's existed for a while, they both know it. They both know what it is when he's pressed hard against her thigh or her back at night. They both know what that line of gooseflesh up her arm means as he touches her. It's more though. Yes it's lust, yes it's desire but even he knows it's because he loves her so goddamned much. That he loves her and needs her and he wants her to love him back.

_She did. She said she loved him._

And listening to her now, watching her as she sits in his lap, knees pressed tight at hips, the heat between her thighs matching that of her gaze, he thinks he stands a chance. He thinks it just might be true. She just might have told the truth when she said she loved him.

He doesn't know why he doubts.

Beth Greene ain't ever lied to him before.

"No," he tells her, "I don't want to go back."

And his voice is low and cracked but even he can hear the conviction in it. But there ain’t no guilt, even though he thinks maybe there should be, because this is her and this is him and this is them and somehow, somehow against all odds in this fucked up world, it works. And she swallows and bites her lip, winding her arms around his neck and resting her head on his shoulder and he pulls her closer, buries his face in her wet hair and he breathes her in so deeply that he’s sure her scent will never be out of his lungs. 

This will be the end of him, he knows it with frightening clarity. This will break him even as it rebuilds him. This will hurt him, cut him to the quick, shatter him and consume him until there is nothing left.

And he doesn't care. He'll snatch what happiness he can from this world, be that the old or new he doesn't care. It's Beth Greene and he'll offer himself to her for as long as she deigns to keep him in her life.

When she pulls back his hands are on her skin, fingers rubbing patterns up her spine, thumbs heavy on muscle and bone, like he’s looking for away inside her, a way to fuse his body with hers. Which is exactly what he is trying to do. And when he moves his hands to her breasts she arches into him, leans into him like she trying to find it too.

And her kisses are hard and demanding, the scrape of teeth along his lips and her tongue hot and wet in his mouth. And he wonders where he found this girl, this girl of steel and stone, this girl of silk and sunlight. And he wants to turn them over, push her down hard into the bed and fuck her right there. No preamble, no slow and languid buildup. Hard and fast like her kisses. Hard and fast like them and the world they live in.

But he doesn’t. Because more than the desire to have her, is the desire to explore her, to know her in a way he both did and didn’t the night before. To take this slow and easy, one step at a time. One step and then another and then another until there are no more steps to take and she’s gasping and sobbing and begging to start the journey all over again.

He knows he’s not good. But he’s earnest and dedicated.

And that has to count for something?

Right?

So when she reaches up to undo her shirt, he stops her.

“No,” he rasps and for a second she looks hurt, disappointed, but the look fades when he lifts his trembling hands to her buttons, when his fingers, usually so nimble and quick, now clumsily start to undo them. 

“Let me Beth.”

And she nods and her hands go slack at her sides as she watches him, watches him with an intensity that winds itself into his core and twists right down to his cock where it strains against his jeans.

The way last night played out was necessary, he realises that now. Realises that if she hadn't undressed they wouldn't be here, that he'd have got in his own way again. Again and again and again. But she's given them this

They given each other this.

But he wants to do it. He wants to know he can. He wants to uncover her slowly, piece by piece. 

And she lets him, looking him square in the eye as he works the buttons through their holes. As he fumbles and fails because they're too damn small for his hands. And even though he wants to look at the flesh he's uncovering he keeps his eyes on his fingers, on the work he's doing.

_(We all have jobs to do)_

And when he's done and her shirt is open and all he can see is thin white line of her skin between the plaid he chances another look at her. At her eyes.

And there's a storm behind them. A storm of blues and greys. Thunder and lightning hiding beneath an almost implacable calm. And he waits for it to break, waits for it to sweep him up in it and drown him. If his own storm doesn't drown him first. But she doesn't break. Not yet. She doesn't because she's strong, because he knows how strong she is. Because at the end of it all she's stronger than him. So much stronger.

Her hands hang loosely at her sides and, as he slips the fabric off her shoulders, he feels the weight of her gaze, her scrutiny as she watches him watching her. As his eyes are drawn to the rosy nipples in her creamy flesh, the faint blue veins like thin rivers of life beneath her skin.

His fingers skim her ribs, slotting against each edge of bone like an instrument he needs to learn to play, his thumbs only just brushing against the sides of her breasts. It's enough to make her gasp, make her nipples harden even as he watches them.

She's pale, so pale. Always has been. Somehow she's managed to avoid letting the Georgia sun devour her. Even after months on the run, and the years before that.

And him, well he's different. Weather beaten and torn. His body a wreck, a roadmap of scars that write his history and tease a legacy he swears he'll never leave behind. And he sees that flat of his hand, skin tanned and inked against her. And it's ok. It's something good, something beautiful. It doesn't frighten him, not any more. There ain't no shame in this.

He slides a palm up to her shoulder, pressing slightly on her collarbone and she gasps and leans into him.

He looks.

Looks at this girl on his lap, this girl with her broken skin and her healed spirit. Looks at the line of her neck, the curve of her shoulder, the small swells of her breasts and the pale nipples at their centre. 

He breathes out, air he didn't know he'd been holding puffing onto her flesh, making it tighten and pebble. He trails his other hand up her spine and she shivers again, before he slides it over to her breast.

A sharp intake of breath, a small whimper and he stops to look away from her chest and to her face, her big eyes, lips slightly parted.

She gives him a weak smile, the hint of a shrug.

"What?" He asks.

"I'm small," she mumbles.

"Stop," he says, sliding his mouth over hers. "Stop."

And it isn't long before his shirt is also hanging open and her hands are running like flame over his skin, over sinew and muscle. And she's rubbing against him so that he can feel her heat through two layers of denim.

All he wants out of this is to make this good for her. Make it like last night and not any of those quickly forgotten encounters from before. It ain't like there's many. Ain't like there was some string of women before. But still, this is Beth. Always Beth. The start and end of something beautiful. The thing he's always craved and dreaded his whole life.

And yeah, he never believed in fate and destiny. Never believed in The One. But now he ain't so sure, now with her lips on his and her hands framing his face and his heart ready to burst he thinks she just might be it. They just might be it. And it's dumb and it's crazy to be thinking in these terms in a world that's dying and determined to take all the living with it. But he can't help it. There's a chance they'll make it. And he has to make good on that. Has to see it through.

He slides his hands under her ass, squeezing her flesh gently before he lifts her and turns so that he’s lying half across her on the bed and her hair is flared out across the duvet, bright and shining like the sun. Her legs part for him almost immediately and he's pressed firmly into that space where she's soft and he's hard and he let's out a breath so ragged it sounds more like a groan.

There’s a moment that he’s not sure what to do. She’s absolutely quiet except for small hitching breaths and she still has not torn her gaze from him, her eyes still bore into him, they still house a storm and he’s not sure when it will break. But break it will. Maybe not now, maybe not today but soon, maybe sooner than either of them think.

So he touches her hair, smoothing it off her cheek, watching as his hard rough fingers trail over over her jaw to skim her neck. He realises that she’s waiting for him, waiting for him to set the rhythm and the pace of this encounter. It ain’t no surprise really. Not after last night, not after she put herself on the line and risked pretty much everything.

And he wants to show her he can, he wants to be that man for her. That man with the shaking hands and the clumsy mouth. That one whose awkward about getting his clothes off and doesn’t have the words to tell her how he feels or what he wants.

But he's good with things he puts his mind to. Always has been. Good with stuff he’s invested and he’s a fast learner. Faster than most. 

Even so, she makes him weak, even so she terrifies him, even so he’s never wanted anyone like he wants her.

It ain’t no surprise really.

So he kisses her, soft and slow at first. And the taste of her mouth is sweet and her tongue is warm as it slides against his and licks at his teeth, as her lips, dewy and smooth, press against his and he tries to keep from losing himself completely in her. 

Doesn't know why though. He lost himself last night and she found him again. Ain't no reason today should be any different.

And then he's mouthing his way down her neck, pressing his tongue and lips into the skin of her throat, to her pulse where he can feel her lifeblood pounding through her veins, a staccato rhythm of life and death and everything he can find in between.

And she tilts her head back to allow him closer so he can press his face into her, breathe her in and keep her there. 

_Beth, God Beth._

He moves his hand from her face to her breast, squeezes gently, enough to make her gasp, enough to send a jolt of fear and need and desire through him, from the tips of his fingers to his cock where it pushes hard against her thigh. 

She's beautiful, he's always known this. Always found her this way. It's Maggie that blinds you initially. Maggie with her dazzling smile and curves that go on for days. But when you look, when you really look and you see Beth and you see her goodness and her spirit, her big blue eyes and the storm that lies behind them you realise the Greene sisters are two sides of a coin. One strong and striking the other strong and subtle. And he hopes to God for Beth's sake they can find her sister again one day.

Hopes they can find them all.

But now? Well now, now in this meantime, they have this.

They have each other.

_She said she loved him._

He kisses her lips again gently, hand still tight at her breast giving himself permission to knead her flesh softly to rub a thumb over her nipple and feel it harden in response. He has to trust her. Trust her more than he trusts himself. And he does. He does because she's shown him that she knows her own mind, her own heart.

Apparently she knows his too and that scares the shit out of him.

She makes a little sound in the back if her throat. At first he thinks it's a sob, a whimper but when he pulls back to look at her, her open lips, her blown pupils he realises it was nothing of the sort.

He asks if she's ok anyway. Just to be sure. Just because he has to be. And she nods, another strangled sound and he realises she doesn't trust herself with words any more. He's not sure he should either. Thinks if he does he's going to start telling her he loves her, he needs her, he wants her more than anything. 

And he wonders why that would be so bad. 

He doesn't think it will. 

He doesn't think she'll judge him for the wrong words. Or the right ones.

And so what if he ends up sounding like a bad song? She has enough good ones to make up for it.

It's always been a shot in the dark anyway.

Even so he finds the words sticky and painful in the back of his throat. It's not because they aren't true. Not because he finds it hard to lie. But the truth is he's never seen this, not before last night and her whispered confession, her strangled voice gulping out words he never thought he'd hear from anyone. Let alone Beth.

_Question: how do you tell a girl you love her?_

_Answer: you just do._

But he doesn't trust himself, not yet, so instead he plants kisses on her throat, plotting a trail down to her collarbones, so delicate they look like they could snap under too much pressure from his mouth. But they won't, because she won't. Because she's strong, even if he ain't.

She's moving with him now, body bending and shifting to allow him access to her, one hand gripping hard at his bicep, the other twisting in the hair at the nape of his neck. Both half directing and half caressing him.

He shifts lower, trailing saliva along her sternum, the soft swells of her breasts rubbing against the scruff of his beard. She gasps again, another whimper that isn't a whimper at all, a slight increase in pressure on his arm as she arches her body towards his mouth.

He turns his head, licks at her breast, at her hard nipple, long hard strokes with the flat of his tongue until she squeaks and wraps her legs around his waist, hands tight in his hair, knees pressing painfully at his hips. 

He mouths her name against her skin once, waits for a long moment, gives her that time, although he’s not sure for what. To stop? To carry on? He can’t say, can’t even imagine. But she still pulls at him, still rolls her hips up to meet his, still begs with little sounds that he feels all the way down to his cock. So he draws her nipple into his mouth, circling it with his tongue and sucking gently.

She curses and he remembers what he said the previous night,

_(you kiss your mother with that mouth)_

and wonders how she let that go. Wonders how she could get past it and how he could have been so thoughtless. But the memory leaves as he moves to her other breast. As he tastes her and explores and runs trails over her skin with his tongue. And she’s still sweet, sweeter than last night even and she still tastes like sunshine and rain and everything in between. And he just wants to lose himself in her again and he hopes that there’s a part of her, however small, that might just feel the same.

And he thinks it's ok, thinks he's doing all right as her pale skin flushes and prickles, as small gasps and once even an honest to God, giggle escapes her lips. But his hands still shake and his arms still tremble and part of him wishes for the man from earlier or the one who nearly had her against the wall all those nights ago. Hell, even the man from last night would be good. The one who put his hand, and later his mouth, between her legs.

He’s still not sure he believes it happened. Even as it’s about to happen again, he’s still not sure it ever did.

_He spent the night fucking Beth Greene._

_She said she loved him._

The thought makes him makes him dizzy and suddenly he wants her naked, needs it like air. Like breath and the feel of her skin sliding on his. And he’s already wrenching away and his hands are already undoing her jeans, already brushing against the soft blue fabric of her underwear as she’s pushing herself up on her elbows to watch.

He doesn’t look at her face as he does. Doesn’t ask for permission because he knows she’ll stop him if she doesn’t want this. Knows he needs to learn to trust her and trust this.

He tugs the denim down her legs. She’s pale there too although that’s no surprise. Well pale except for the half moon bruises on her hips and thighs, pale except for where he’s marked her. And it’s like her bloodied sweater all over again. A bruised or bloody branding that ties them together forever.  


_Come what may girl. Come what may._

He touches the marks, slowly, deliberately, one finger at a time until he covers them all and her skin is clear again, clear except for the rough tan of his hands. It ain’t a surprise, they’re an exact match for his fingertips, the ridge of his nails.

For a moment he thinks they can stay like this forever, smelling her heat, her lust. His hands on her, soothing her until those blemishes disappear until they slide off her skin and, like a magician who cuts up pieces of string only to put them back together when he moves away, she’ll be whole again. Fixed. Unbroken.

She ain’t broken. 

She don’t need fixing either.

She’s whole enough for the both of them.

But still.

_Still._

He lifts his head to look at her through shaggy hair, look up the flat expanse of her stomach, the small swells of her breasts, her throat and how he can see the muscles within working for her every breath and finally her open lips.

“It’s ok,” she whispers, “it’s ok.”

And he nods and lowers his lips to her thighs, kissing his way across her skin, kissing the bruises and the marks, kissing away the badness, tasting the goodness. Somewhere he can hear her whimpering, somewhere he can feel her hands twisting in his hair but it’s not here, not here where his lips meet her thigh, not here we he can smell her musk and see her tremble.

It’s all so very far away. And yet so very, very close.

 _God Beth,_ he’s not sure if he says it against her skin. He’s not sure if he mouths it or just thinks it. But it’s there.

_God. Beth._

And she responds. Not with words or whimpers, not with sounds or sighs. But with the way her thighs tense, the ever-increasing damp stain on her underwear, her hands gripping at the bedspread next to her hips.

Her hips and his mouth.

And he wonders how they got here. How they got to this place where his mouth on her, while terrifying and horrific in its own way, is the best thing that could ever happen. How they got from a hug in a cold cell over a dead man, a dead snake and country club he had no business being in, to a bed in a house with his hands on her. With a dog and a flowerpot and a night spent fucking - he’s not ready to call in making love - in front of a fire.

It’s insane when you think about it.

Hell, it’s insane when you don’t.

But in this world, this world lost to madness and death it doesn’t seem that shocking, not that bad.

They can be a little insane.

It’s all right.

It’s all all right as long as she’s all right. As long as this is what she wants.

And she does. Judging by the way she’s arching her hips and saying his name, she most assuredly does.

And so he twists his fingers into her panties, pale blue and silky and there’s a moment he looks at her again. A moment so like the previous night he can almost smell the fire and feel the slickness of her on his fingers. And she nods. Again. And he knows he’s lost and he knows she is too.

His mouth is on her before her underwear is on the floor. Lapping at her where she’s warm and wet and sweet. Lapping at her where she’s soft and delicate and heady. And he hears her say something that could be his name and her hands twist in his hair as she pulls him hard against her and he knows, he knows, she’s past this shyness, past this coyness they’ve been playing at for months now and then again this morning.

And he knows he has to follow her. Has to trust her. Has to get out of his own head.

He thinks he’s doing a pretty good job of it so far. 

It’s Beth. It’s always been Beth.

_(it’s you Daryl, only you)_

And he lets out a strangled sound as he moves his mouth over her, as he laves the hard nub of her clit, the smooth lines of her lips and savours the wetness of her opening. 

She tastes of heat, if heat had a taste. Of sunshine and fire and summer days.

And yet she also tastes of sugar and salt, the cold light of stars of a moonless night.

And somewhere he knows he waxing lyrical. And somewhere else he doesn’t care and he pushes deeper into her, as her wetness gathers on his his lips and tongue.

She still hoisted up on her elbows and she’s watching him, he knows she is, he can feel her eyes boring into the top of his head and he wants to tell her not to look away, to keep her eyes fixed on where his lips meet pink wet flesh. But he could never tell her that. Could never be that open. Could never pretend that they could actually talk about this, that they’re not just swept up in the moment.

Which he is.

Which she is.

So he licks at her, runs his tongue over the folds and dips between her legs, rolls her clit between his teeth, his lips.

And her thighs tremble and he thinks he’s doing ok. Remembers what she showed him and breathed at him the previous night. 

He’s not perfect, he knows this. He can taste but he can't tease, he can't predict when she's going to fall over the edge, he doesn't know her tells, her sounds, her movements. 

Not yet.

Not by a long shot.

He ain’t experienced enough and he’s still awkward, still feels like he’s got too many fingers and thumbs. But he’s earnest and willing and happy to work her for as long as she needs.

Turns out it ain't that long. Turns out he ain't that bad because when he moves his hand from her thigh and pushes two fingers into her slickness, it's seconds before she's crying his name, her body fluttering and trembling as he sucks on her clit in an unholy rhythm.

And he feels her elbows give way, collapse beneath her, knows she’s given up trying to watch, that her head is thrown back as she gasps and cries out a word that sounds like his name and thrills him all the way to his core.

And he presses small kisses and nips into her wet flesh, one final swipe of his tongue across her that makes her whimper and he licks his lips, the sudden desire to kiss her and make her taste herself welling up inside him.

He'd never say it, not in those words, he wouldn't know how but regardless he crawls up her body, slowly and deliberately like he's stalking her, stopping along the way to lay his lips on her stomach, her breasts, her shoulders, every kiss a promise before touching his mouth to hers, softly, gently.

But she's not soft and she's not gentle as she grabs at him pulling him close, biting down hard on his shoulder, so hard he thinks she may have broken shirt and skin.

He doesn’t speak, wouldn’t have the words anyway. But he kisses her hair as she shakes, rubs a hand over her back, the curve of her ass and to the back of her thigh, which is slippery and slick from her orgasm.

There's a moment holding her like this that he let's his mind wander, let's himself consider things. Things like staying here forever, things like birthdays and picnics and summer holidays. Things like a life.

No dead grandmas, no frightened girls locked away in broken houses.

He wants it.

She does too.

_She said she loved him._

When her trembling stops, she looks up at him, twines a hand through his hair and pulls him down for a kiss that's rough and tough. And he feels her teeth on his lips and tongue as her free hand snakes into his shirt, reaching for his nipple and squeezing it hard between her fingers.

 _Jesus Beth,_ he whispers into her mouth and that's all she needs before she's twisted so that she's on him, knees digging into his hips, hair brushing his naked chest as she leans in to kiss him again and her hands sink between them to undo his jeans.

Slip of a girl, she was always quick.

Too quick for him.

And speed seems to be a thing, because she’s already got him out of his jeans and boots, his socks already on the floor next to her clothes. She’s bold today, bolder than she was last night and that’s saying something considering she fucking stripped in front of him.

_(look at me Daryl, look at me)_

But there’s still a shyness to her, an innocence, a certain fearfulness and he’s not sure what to do with that. And he’s even less sure what to do with his own.

Because when she leans across him to push his shirt off his shoulders, he stops her grabbing her wrists in his hands, thumb skimming her scar.

He didn’t know he was going to before he did it. Hadn’t even thought it. But now it seems inevitable. Instinctual.

He can’t. Not like this. Maybe last night, maybe last night in the dark when he could pretend it was a dream and that they’d wake up from it with not a care in the world. But not like this. Not in the cold light of day with weak sunshine streaming through the window and no shadows to hide the pictures of his past.

He can’t.

It’s too much. 

Even with Beth it’s too much.

_(I'm small)_

_(I'm scarred)_

_(Stop)_

There’s a moment when he thinks she’ll stand up and walk out. Leave him there with his dick in his hand so to speak. He wouldn't blame her. Not at all.

But she doesn't. Of course she doesn't.

Instead she leans into him, sliding her wrists out of his grip to weave their fingers together before letting her lips linger on his.

When she pulls back he tries to explain although he has no fucking idea what he's saying, no clue of any explanation he might give.

But words come out. Words about something. Maybe her name, maybe an apology, he's not sure. But they're about something, even though all he can really concentrate on is the heat between her legs and the press of her breasts, small and firm against his chest.

"Hush," she whispers as her lips find his neck. "Hush now."

So he does. Let's her fuse her lips to his skin, let's her tongue run trails over his throat, his collarbones, his shoulders.

And then she has a hand between them and inside his underwear pushing the thin material down his legs and wrapping her hand around him where he's hard and heavy.

And he let's out a groan as she caresses him with her fingertips, as her thumbs swipes over him and presses into his skin.

"Jesus girl," he whispers into her hair, curling a hand around the back of her neck to move his mouth to hers.

She's smiling, but it's a sad smile and that storm behind her eyes is back. He doubts it ever left. 

"What?" She asks, hand still moving on him, rubbing in a gentle circle that makes him want to flip her over and take her right there and then.

And her eyes are blue and her mouth is firm and he kisses her again before answering. He wants to say something big, something romantic but he has nothing. So he goes with the truth. Frightening as it may be.

"You make me weak Beth."

And she shifts against him and lowers herself, wet and hot and so slow that he can feel every inch of her, onto him. She winces a little, just a little, and he wonders if she did last night as well, if he missed a bitten lip, a shot of fear in her eyes, wonders if he hurt her, thinks she would have said if he did. And then she stills, holds her breath before slowly exhaling and looking down at him, hand on his cheek.

"Maybe one day I'll make you strong," she whispers.

But he thinks she already has as he plunges a hand into her hair and draws her close, his rough tough kisses not nearly enough to distract either of them from the press of her heat, her slickness against him.

Not nearly enough to distract him from circular movements of her hips, the feel of her breasts against him.

"Beth," he whispers as he releases her, as she sits up, as her small breasts bounce, as she takes his hand and presses it into the pillow next to his head.

_Beth Beth Beth._

And her movements are stilted, unsure and he has to hold her thigh and arch into her, but she's still perfect and even though she's moving painfully slowly, hips barely rotating against his, he has to grit his teeth to stop himself coming almost immediately. 

He guesses they're still figuring each other out, figuring themselves out.

But then she's gasping, and her eyes are wild, feral even. The same look she had when she drove a knife through a dead man's eye and stained her skin with his blood. And she's hungry, he can see it. Hungry for him, hungry for this, hungry for release as she works herself against him.

He thinks she hisses his name as he moves his hand out of hers across her thigh and rests his thumb against the hard nub of her clit, moving it slowly, small strokes that make her clench and shiver.

"Please," she whispers, "please."

For a moment he misunderstands, tries to pull away, his fingers feel too hard too rough where's she's soft and delicate anyway, for a second he worries about hurting her and even though he hasn’t, that well of shame he keeps deep within him starts to overflow.

But she grabs at his hand, eyes big, incredulous even that he'd dare take this away from her.

"You ain't gonna break me Daryl." She manages to choke out. “You ain’t.”

He might though, he feels like he just might.

But he presses his thumb into her, small slippery circles against her. And then he feels it. She tightens around him, fast and hard and she throws her head back, breasts heaving, stomach fluttering as her nails dig into his skin and her entire body turns to gooseflesh.

And when she gulps his name he sits up to meet her thrusts, wrapping both arms tightly around her waist as he flips them over and her hair flares out on the pillow like rays of sunshine.

And she hitches her legs over his hips, around his waist, pushes her lips messily against his as she smooths the hair from his face and clenches hard around him.

"Fuck Beth," he says into her neck.

"Do it Daryl," she answers, voice clear, demanding even. "Do it."

And he knows this is all kinds of wrong and all kinds of stupid, and that this recklessness is something they deserve to be called out on, deserve to atone for. Once is a mistake, a lapse of judgement, a moment of passion. Twice is stupid. But now? Three times? Three times is spitting in fate’s face, daring destiny with nothing but a smile and a song in your heart. Flipping off the world as you pitch down a cliff.

That life in the little death.

And then he can't think any more. Because he's falling apart on top of her, biting down hard and true on her shoulder, hands reaching blindly for hers as he feels himself shatter inside her.

And she holds him as he comes, as he comes long and deep and hard, gasping for breath, gasping her name, her fingers sliding over his hands up his arms, cupping the back of his head and holding him close to her. He hears her saying his name, he thinks he's shouting hers and he’s spinning and spiralling and fracturing into a million tiny pieces.

And, as always, as always, she's the only thing holding him together. 

She’s the glue, she’s the key.

She always has been.

_She loves him._

She said so.

_She said she loved him._

He thinks he may have blacked out because when he opens his eyes his head is on her chest, nestled into the valley between her breasts and her hands are under his shirt, running along the ridges of his scars, rubbing circles into his skin. And he has no recollection of how either of those two things happened.

Her legs are slack against his, and her chest rises and falls in little hitches. And he knows he must be crushing her, but he doesn't want to move, wants to catch his breath with hers, hold her tight and fast and never let go again.

And he buries his head in her, mouthing at the skin.

_Beth Beth._

And he thinks he’d give everything, every-fucking-thing, to never let go, to never get up. To just hold her and touch her and never leave her.

Maybe he’d even rack up the courage to tell her how he feels, tell her why. Maybe they could stay here forever.

But they can’t.

He knows they can’t.

"Sorry," he says moving off her and rolling onto his back, shirt twisting tight over his shoulders as he goes.

"S'ok," she says quietly, voice low and breathy, eyes focused on the ceiling.

They lie there in silence for a few minutes. Gentle breaths inside matching the chill gusts of wind outside. 

And it stretches. Stretches long and thin and he wonders what they're both waiting for. Wonders why this feels more difficult than last night, last night in the shadows and the fire.

And eventually he moves onto his side, props himself up on an elbow and looks at her, the way her hands are folded over her belly, her crossed ankles.

That storm, that storm which is still there and still frightening and the hints of it he can see through her lashes.

"You a'right?" He asks .

And he waits for her to say no, waits as she frowns and chews on her bottom lip. And he wonders what she will say, wonders what’s going on in her head. If it’s something to do with now or some hidden secret, some hidden pain from the past. If it’s both.

She smiles.

"Yeah," she says turning to him, snuggling into his chest, like she did last night, like she does every night.

"I'm just..." She pauses and he waits, hand rubbing the small of her back.

"I'm just happy," she finishes. 

And he pulls her closer, rests his chin on her head, breathes her and her happiness and the scent of sex into his lungs. And he can't stop his mouth quirking as his belly presses hers. 

"Are you happy?" She asks pulling back to look at him, hand against his cheek.

And he turns and kisses her palm, covering her fingers with his.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm happy."

And her eyes widen and he almost wants to laugh at the joy he sees in them. It occurs to him that she has no idea. That she has no fucking clue that happy for him means something so completely and utterly different as it does to her. That no, this isn't happy, this is ecstatic, this is euphoric, this is over the goddamned moon.

And he kisses her lips, hard and then moves her wrist to his mouth like he did last night. But this time he keeps his lips there. Traces the line of it with his tongue.

And she shivers. And she frowns.

He thinks of Bessie's bracelet, how out of place it would have been. How ostentatious and silly it would have looked. How he’s glad that he changed his mind. That he flung it from the car. That one day he’ll still find something for her, something that suits her, that she’ll want to keep because she likes it and not just because he gave it to her.

But for now, for now, he’s happy to run his tongue along her skin, explore the difference between the dead skin and the living. The life and the death.

That life in the little death.

But there's something bothering her, he can see it, something bone deep and hidden and darker than his nightmares.

So he asks.

And he thinks she'll wave it away.

But she doesn't.

"It wasn't for attention," she whispers and he feels a lead weight dropping in his belly but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let go of her wrist, holds it and rubs his thumb over the scar, the ridge giving way to the smooth skin on either side. 

He remembers. Remembers all too well.

 _I know Beth,_ he tells her. 

But she’s not done. And he lets her speak, eventually releasing her wrist to rub her back gently, hand travelling from her ass to the tips of her shoulder blades and back. 

She speaks into his chest, breath ghosting across the sparse line of hair on his breastbone. She speaks softly, so softly he has to strain to hear her. But her voice is still clear and deliberate. She doesn’t grasp for words. She doesn’t waver. She just speaks as if she’s thought about what she was going to say forever.

Maybe she has.

"My dad told us my mom was just sick and she'd be better soon. Maggie didn't believe him. I don't think I did either." 

He tells her to stop. That he was being a dick, the biggest dick. That he knew, he fucking knew it wasn't for attention. 

He tells her she doesn't have to.

She tells him she does. So he listens.

“It was too much you know?” she says and he nods kissing her the top of her head, hand on her hip drawing her closer. “All of it. My mom was dead, my brother was dead and my dad … he was wrong. Wrong about so many things.”

She covers his hand with her own and he wonders why this is ok, why this is the most natural thing in the world. Why, even after they’ve just been the most intimate two people can be, this feels like that night on the porch, the night when he fell into her arms and everything else fell apart.

_My strong sweet girl._

She always knew what he needed, right from the start, she always knew. 

“And if my dad was wrong, it meant everything was wrong. No one was coming to save us, no one was looking for a cure.”

He squeezes her fingers and suddenly her demeanour lightens and she looks up at him smiling.

“Maybe he wasn’t all wrong, maybe you came to save us.”

And this is fucking scary, because now she’s thanking him for shit he never did. Now she’s elevating him to a position he doesn’t fucking belong.

“Maybe you came to save me.”

“No Beth,” he says, pulling his hand out of her grip and putting a finger to her lips. “You saved yourself. That was all you.”

And it’s true but he wants to add that she saved him too that night outside the cabin, and she saved him over and over and over again in the days that followed. And she carries on saving him every single day that he can hear her voice and see her face.

She shifts to look at the scar on her wrist, traces the faded line with her thumb and she bites her lip.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey, it says you wanted to survive.”

And he believes it. That’s the thing. He really really does. Yeah, he has issues with checking out. Yeah, he always did. Yeah, he’s knows he’s a dick about it. But then he remembers how those days felt running with Joe. How he felt after the prison fell with only Beth Greene to keep him sane and he thinks of how easy it would have been to stick a gun in his mouth, taste the metal, the oil and just pull the trigger. Give himself that oblivion.

_1...2...3… bang! You’re dead._

He sees it now. He gets it.

And all he can do is hold her closer, stroke her hair, because she’s strong. She’s so strong.

“I always thought when people saw it that was all they saw you know? That when they saw the scars, that would be the only thing they’d remember.”

She sighs and when she looks up at him her eyes are red rimmed. “I hid it under the bracelets. Zach never knew, I never told him.”

This surprises him, he can’t say why, but it does. Maybe it’s the thought that even then he knew something about her that Zach didn’t, that even if they never spoke about it and seldom spoke to each other that he had a kind of intimacy with her that Zach had been unable to find. That even then they had secrets of their own. That all that time they spent together - the three of them - with him on the outside because Zach shared her time and her bed, that in some way they were the close ones and Zach was the third wheel.

And now? he wonders, what secrets do they have now? What secrets would they share and what would they keep if they found others again? What rhythms would they have, what understandings, what jokes?

And he doesn’t want to think about the others because the implications are fucking frightening, no matter which you way you choose to look at it,

“I wanted him to see me, not the scars. Because I’m more than my scars.” She looks pointedly at him. “We all are.”  

_Who are you, you witchy woman? Who are you that you can read my mind like it’s a book?_

She sighs and looks away and he kisses her cheek.

“I just wanted you to know,” she says. “I just wanted you to know that I trust you and I know you see me. You see the scars, but you also see me.”

And he doesn’t know what to say because he knows this is more about him than her and he knows this is her way of trying to tell him that it’s ok. And he realises then that there has never ever been anyone like Beth in his life before. 

He presses a kiss to her forehead, another to her cheek. 

"You all right?" She asks.

And he pulls her close to him like he does at night, when they're both bone weary and languid, cupping her head to his chest and splaying his fingers on the finely muscled flesh of her back.

"You make everything all right Beth."

Somewhere in his head he thinks that there's a man he could be. And maybe that man is here with her now. And then he kisses her again and for a moment there is no death, no scars, no anything but the two of them, a puppy and a house with a blue flowerpot.

Living in a world of death.

That life in the little death.

And they lie like that for a while, tangled and knotted in each other, breathing deeply and kissing chastely until his hand sinks between her legs and they start from the beginning again.

And he thinks this could be it, that he could live in this cycle of loving and living.

And he wonders how long this world will allow it.

~

It's late afternoon when he decides to come clean. He doesn't know why, doesn't know why he didn't say anything earlier when they were upstairs and the words flowed freely. When his shirt was a thing and her scars were a thing and they were a thing and it really wasn’t at the same time. But he's been turning it over in his head, what she said about her scars and it ain’t no surprise to realise he wants that intimate honesty she keeps offering. Honesty that chips away at his carefully constructed edges and armour. 

He wants her to know. Wants her to understand.

_She said she loved him._

They’ve eaten, had coffee, and she's sitting at the table, playing the guitar, snatches of old songs he recognises, some he doesn't. And he's watching her, watching the marks he left on her neck, the pathways his tongue found over her collarbones. The storm behind her eyes and the deftness of her hands.

“My dad,” he begins and then his mouth snaps shut and he hopes she didn’t hear, hopes she’s so engrossed in the guitar that his voice disappeared into the ether where it belongs, along with his past and his childhood.

But she hears, _of course she hears_ , and she looks up immediately, eyes big, slightly shocked and he thinks she looks like an angel with her golden hair and skin that’s almost luminous in the dim afternoon light.

He swallows and looks away and there's a moment that he just wants to bolt for the door, that he considers it. He knows he'll have to come back and that those two words - _my dad_ \-  will still be here when he does. But suddenly he craves the bite of the air outside, imagines it smells clean, like ozone, imagines that it's not tainted with the the scent of the dead and the sound of his voice

But he can't keep running.

He can't

He knows that.

_My dad_

Still he's immediately sorry, and he's never wanted to turn the clock back so badly. 

But his words hang in the air, hang like stale smoke, yellow words against her yellow hair and he knows the only way to erase them is to finish them.

He looks back at her and she's still watching him. He's not sure it's an invitation to continue but he takes it anyway, gritting his teeth against the blackness of the memories.

"My dad," he says again and the guitar makes a hollow sound as she puts it on the floor. "He liked his belt."

_(My Ma, she liked her wine.)_

"He was away a lot," he tells her but he doesn't know why. He thinks maybe it's so she knows it wasn't all the time, wasn't every day. He doesn't know why it should make any difference, because either way it was bad, really bad, sometimes so bad that he couldn’t lie down for weeks, but somehow it's important that she knows it wasn't constant, there were reprieves, blissful and short as they may have been. 

"Where did he go?" She asks, words quick, soft, strained, like she also doesn't want him to hear them.

He looks up from his hands across the room at her and that wave of regret and shame rolls through him again. He shouldn't be doing this. Not after last night. Not after today.

He has a sudden overwhelming desire to shut her up with kisses, to strip her bare and put his mouth on her again. Make her come as best he can so she forgets all about this. So that his old man never stains their home again. Somehow that is easier than this. Despite this weird limbo of tension and release, tension and release, tension and release  they've lived through today, it's still easier to imagine himself doing that than telling her about this.

He considers it for a second, considers it deeply and the thought of being inside her again makes him lose his mind a little.

Just a little.

But she's looking at him, open and honest and her eyes are pretty but her jaw is tight and he knows he has to finish this, finish what he started. He can't, he won't use what they have, use the place they found last night as a weapon, as a smokescreen, as anything else than what it was.

He can't keep running.

He shrugs.

"He was mixed up in some bad shit. He had lots of women besides my Ma. He was bad news," he swallows again, hunching his shoulders and Bo wanders over to sniff at his hands. 

He thinks this is hard for her to imagine. This den of iniquity that is his childhood. Hershel may have had his demons but the Dixons and the Greenes? Like night and day. And he's not sure Beth will ever understand that.

He thinks of his old man, coming home from a bender, drunk and high, wasted. Swearing and coughing and bumping into things, calling for his Ma. 

_Chlo, Chlo, where the fuck are you woman?_

_You wasted again? You pissed you sad old whore?_

Most of the time he was right, most of the time she was. Most of the time she wouldn't move from where she lay on the filthy sheets of a filthier bed.

He'd call for Merle next but Merle was always out, either running the town raw with friends or serving a few months in juvie. Said at least he got a bed and three square meals, said the other boys were scared of him and left him alone. 

He never called for Daryl. Not when he came home drunk. He thinks it's because of who he was. The sweet one. The shy boy with blond hair and the face of a cherub. 

He'd stalk him though, lurch through the trailer looking for him behind chairs, under beds, in cupboards.

And if he wasn't fast enough or wily enough, if he was still half asleep next to his Ma when that door opened and the old man staggered in or the hidey hole he scurried into wasn't hidey enough... That's when he was in for it.

He'd end up bent over a chair or over his dad's knee, sometime the old man wouldn't bother with that. Sometimes he'd just take off that belt and aim. Somehow even when he was wasted he was accurate.

Other times were better. When he got away fast enough and his old man would fall down on the bed next to his Ma. 

Sometimes they'd sleep for days. Sometimes they wouldn't and he'd hear bed springs creaking through the walls or hear jolted cries followed the snap of flesh on flesh.

He's still not sure if that was beating or fucking. He thinks that with the way his old man was with his Ma it was the same thing.

In time though his old man would sober up. Merle said he sobered up long enough to think and then he'd go back to the bottle, back to the drugs.

Those times were worse though. When he was wasted his mind was scrambled eggs, he was easier to avoid, easier to hide from. When he wasn't, well when he wasn't was how Daryl ended up with a broken leg and two shattered ribs before he turned 11. It's the reason his jaw cracks painfully in the morning, it's why there's an ugly scar on his chest. The scar Beth put her mouth on and licked clean.

It's funny how it always surprised him. Even when he was hiding in his cupboard, under a mound of ratty blankets, it was always a surprise when his father took a belt to him. 

He'd seen his old man lay into Merle, he doesn't know why he thought he would be spared.

It was worse when Merle left. Much worse. Because despite everything Merle and the old man weren't that different. He thinks now that Will Dixon managed to mould Merle into what he wanted, whatever the fuck that was. Not that Merle didn't get his fair share of beatings. He did. But by the time he left they were tapering off either because Merle was bigger and could defend himself or because the old man was finally getting what he wanted, the son he needed. Not the sensitive pansy ass kid he accused Daryl of being between belt strikes.

So yeah, it got worse. So bad CPS even came out once. Daryl lied about his black eye and broken lip. If they knew they didn't care enough to help. They were Dixons and easier to let them kill each other than let them out in society.

And there was blood and there were bruises and a childhood that went up in smoke along with a woman who'd made a bad decision and spent her life paying for it.

Yeah, God has a shitty sense of humour.

He keeps his eyes on the floor, on Bo mouthing at his fingers while he speaks. And something in the puppy's silliness makes it easier. 

He doesn't tell her the details though. He can't. But he tells her enough. 

Tells her other things too.

And he trembles as he speaks.

Tells her he's scared he's like his old man, scared he's going to turn into him one day, knows it ain't fair to rely on her to keep him straight, keep him good. But he's scared of his Dixon blood and the terrible taint it holds.

He thinks of the cabin, how he'd dragged her outside, overpowered her with brute force and how in that moment he felt like a Dixon more than ever before. He was his father's son then. Sure, he'd had rages like that before. Not quite the same but similar but he'd never had Beth before. Beth, tiny and blond and made of sunshine

When he stops talking, stops the stream of pure unadulterated evil pouring out of his mouth she's silent. The whole world is silent, even Bo whose curled up next to his feet.

No more secrets, no more blood, no more tears.

Except there are tears, so many tears when he eventually finds the courage to look back to her, to meet her gaze. They shimmer in her eyes and run down her cheeks and he wonders what he looks like to her. Sitting here, stoic and resigned, voice cracking under the weight of his words. If he’s blurred and fuzzy, if she can see his face.

If he even wants her to.

But he can’t let her, he just can’t let her cry. Not for this, not over him. 

"Hey no no no. Don't cry Beth,” he tells her. “It was a long time ago.”

He gets up and moves to her, kneeling on the floor in front of her chair and pulling her cold hands into his own, resting them on her knees.

She's shaking a little. Like him.

_(You were like me)_

And that storm finally breaks, breaks like a roll of thunder, lightning jagged across the sky. And he's not sure why, why it would be then, why it would be for him, but he holds her, rocks her, kisses her hair and lets her sob into his chest. 

He realises she knew, or she thought she did. That what she knew was close but not all of it. And it still isn’t. And here she is and she’s shedding tears for him, tears maybe he should have shed for himself. And he knows Beth Greene is all there is. In this world of rot and ruin, she’s all there is for him. And he’ll give his life to hold onto that.

And when her sobs have eventually turned to little gulps and he’s wiped the tears away with his thumbs which are too big and too rough and too dirty for her skin he takes her hands again, kisses her fingers, and sits back on his heels allowing himself the briefest moment to rest his forehead on her knees.

“I just wanted you to know, Beth I didn't want you to wonder,” he meets her gaze, her quivering lip. “I didn’t want you to waste your time.”

And that snaps her out of it. She straightens in her chair, pulls her hands out of his and cups his face, thumbs running over his stubble, caressing the sharpness of his cheekbones.

When she speaks her voice is clear, strong, barely wavering.

“You ain't a waste of time Daryl Dixon,” she tells him.

And he believes her. Because how could he not? Because this girl is right about pretty much everything and there ain’t no reason she can’t be right about him too.

“I've put it away,” he says when she looks at him. “Here.”

He touches his chest so that she knows what he means, so that she remembers.

And even though she’s still crying between the tears she nods and lifts his hand to her mouth to kiss his knuckles. And her lips are cold but her tears are warm and he stands and pulls her into an embrace while her body trembles and shakes and her tears soak his shirt. And he thinks this is how it should be, how it's always been with them. How all the times he should have offered comfort to her she gave it to him and how it's fitting now that he's the strong one, that's he's her rock.

He knows then that he’d die for her. Happily, easily.

It ain’t even a question. 

And he listens to her gulps, her little sobs, let's her tremble against him, and eventually he whispers "Enough Beth. Enough my girl."  


They stay like that for a long time, longer than they should. And he knows this is it. The end of it all. The end of who they were and who they are and he’s ok with that. He wants this and he’s not afraid any more. And it’s like her tears wash the scars off his back and give them back to the world that doled them out in the first place.

_Question: how do you tell a girl you love her?_

_Answer: You just do._

Later he'll wonder how it happened that he ended up kissing her, how he backed her into the wall like he did so many nights ago, how he picked her up and carried her upstairs and had her again. How he didn't even notice his shirt fall to the floor. 

But for now, for now, just having this is enough. Having her without the weight of those scars is enough.

~

And for a while it’s like that. 

They read, he lies with his head in her lap and listens. They take Bo outside and play with him like they're in a park, Beth sings, they cook, they laugh, they make love in every room in the house and twice in the shower. They bury Grandma and Beth marks her grave with a string of pearls. They lie on the floor in the lounge with Bo on top of them and watch the snow fall outside. He presses kisses into her skin and strokes her hair. And then he straddles her hips and loses himself in her for another hour, another night, another lifetime.

They eventually talk about being more careful. And their words are stilted, but they both know the gravity of the situation. And they visit the doctor’s rooms again where they dig up a few packs of condoms and some pills Beth says Maggie was on before the turn. And when she bleeds they both breathe a sigh of relief.

One night as he's licking the line of her hip she asks him if he thinks they'll ever find the others again.

And he glances at her in the half light and tells her he found her and she nods as if that makes sense. And she runs her hands through his hair and says that she hopes wherever they are, they're safe.

And his mouth moves lower and her words turn to sighs and she doesn't talk any more.

And for a while, just a while, they forget it's the end of the world. 


	9. The Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have much to say about this chapter other than it was a tough one to write. I knew it was coming, I knew the story had to go there, but it still made me sad to do it.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy.
> 
> There's not much of a soundtrack to this but "Take me back home" by Soulsavers is very appropriate.

**  
** So it’s just a home but it’s the best home he’s ever had. More than that, it’s the closest he’s ever come to happiness in his whole life and that smarts a bit, smarts like it always has. Because the fucking end of the world _shouldn’t_ be a new start, it _shouldn’t_ be a chance to shine. He couldn’t make it in the old world but somehow, in this one, he excels and there’s something deeply wrong in that. He remembers how Dale once said that Shane was made for this world. Said it with a sneer and beneath that a grave sadness. Sadness because it’s true. The good ones don’t survive this, they can’t. And yet somehow here he is and he does. And he wonders what Dale would say to that. Wonders if he’d get the same sneer, the same disappointment. 

He lives, he survives, therefore he is bad, he is tainted. That’s the logic and it follows beautifully. **  
**

Except it doesn’t.

Because he thinks of Beth, thinks of her and her goodness, her sweetness, her joy and he realises that despite all this somehow she is making herself into something to survive this world, even if she doesn’t fit into it and never will. It gives him a kind of twisted pride when he sees the efficient way she handles that knife, how she’s a crack shot and how closely acquainted she has become with his crossbow. How she wants to be the last woman next to his last man standing. How he’ll do anything to make sure that happens. Lay down his life, cut off his hands, rip out of his heart and tear it to rags. Beth Greene will survive this and when he’s earned his place at her side, so will he.

And he can’t remember a time he has ever been this happy before. Not once before or after the world ended. Not a day, not an hour, not a second when it felt like it was all coming together for him, all weaving itself into something good and worthwhile and right in a world full of wrong. Not that the prison hadn't had it's moments. It had. He'd had friends, family, people he cared about and people who cared back. He'd been big, respected and when Rick stepped down the responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders. 

But what he and Beth have now is different. Knowing that she is there, that she’s his, that he can lose himself in the bliss of her body is like a dream he never wants to wake up from. 

"You're showing me a side of you I've never seen," she whispers one night into his mouth, the taste of her orgasm still on his tongue and he kisses her deeply, hand tangled in her hair.

She has it half right. She really does. But the whole truth is that he’s showing her a side of him he's never seen either, that he never knew existed. This sincerity, this desire to do whatever will make her happy, this urge to fall into her and drown in her and carve out a little place in this world just for them is not something he recognises in himself. It scares him, because it shouldn’t be like this, because he didn’t know it _could_ be like this and yet somehow it is and he is literally powerless to do anything against it. And he doesn’t want to. He knows he’s being reckless, knows he’s not guarding his heart, but he also knows that regardless of whether he fucks Beth Greene or not, his feelings for her aren’t going to change and it wouldn't make losing her, losing _this_ , any easier.

They don’t go out much, the scavenge the other houses, make deliveries to Bessie a few times. Runs are difficult and dangerous and Bo makes for an added complication. Beth worries about going out without him. She says if something happens to them, Bo will be by himself and will eventually starve to death alone and afraid and thinking they deserted him. She’s right of course, but taking him with is a different kind of risk altogether. A misplaced bark or yelp, failure to obey a command or running off without them could all end in disaster, for him and for them. It’s a problem and so they start some basic puppy training. Not that he knows all that much about training dogs but he guesses it isn’t all that complicated when it comes down to it. And then he thinks about the cabin and Beth and his ugly snarls and her persistence and how far he’s come and he realises maybe she knows more about dog training than even she is aware. So they start slowly, little rewards and lots of positive reinforcement and Bo does the best he can. He seems to get the no barking rule quickly, instead he makes low little growls that the walkers seem to find impossible to distinguish from their own guttural sounds. And he raises his hackles when he knows they’re close. 

He eats well too, grows bigger and stronger every day and they still have no clue how many combinations of dogs it took to make him. Beth asks once what kind of a mutt he is and he tells her that Bo is no doubt a dog with a flawless pedigree. And then he chuckles at the look on her face and adds that Bo’s mother was a dog and his father was a dog. And she rolls her eyes and punches him playfully in the chest, muttering darkly about how he thinks he’s hilarious. 

And that’s another thing, he teases her, he makes jokes now. They’re not very good most of the time but there’s less acid behind them and they make her smile and that in itself means everything. Because if he of all people can bring her some joy in this broken world then things really can’t be that bad. They just can’t because that’s not how it works.

Sometimes he still can’t believe that he can touch her, that she lets him and welcomes him, that he can push her down on the couch and bury his head between her legs for hours if that’s what he wants to do. And she welcomes him, encourages him, sometimes begs for more. Sometimes more than sometimes too. He’s getting better at that as well. So much better. He’s learning slowly how to bring her to the edge without pushing her over, how to keep her there and play with her, tease her until she’s almost angry, until she tells him to stop being a brute, to stop being a jerk, to stop being such a _goddamned_ jackass. And he always gives in. Always gives her what she wants and what he wants her to have. It’s easy. She makes it so so easy.

She gives as good as she gets though, sometimes a lot better. There’s certain things they still don’t do, things he doesn’t feel ready for yet although he can’t explain why, but at night she rides him, clenching her muscles around him and refusing to give into the rhythm his hands demand of her, circling slowly and deliberately until he cries out something that sounds like _Jesus Christ fuck girl, fucking move, God Beth._

_God Beth._

_Beth Beth Beth._

And her evil grin, barely discernible in the candlelight, tells him all he needs to know. She has him just where she wants him but that’s a two way street and holds true for him too. And then she moves just right, just how he needs and he can barely remember anything after that.

~

He builds a fire every afternoon at dusk and she’s creative with the dishes she makes considering the decided lack of fresh ingredients. They speak about planting their own vegetables and she tells him when the best time to plant would be. He’s not sure they can do it but he knows they need to make a go of it if they are to stay here indefinitely. They can’t keep going on runs and even if they could they’d have to keep going further and further out to do it. 

They make plans and life is easy, uncomplicated. Maybe not built to last but built for now.

He mentions their age difference once. She's reading an old magazine, an article about rainbow families and how to make them work and he asks her earnestly what she sees in an old grizzled man like him? An asshole redneck angry at the world? For an insane minute he wants to ask why she let's him touch her pretty skin with his rough hands, why she let's him put his unworthy mouth on her perfect flesh, but he doesn't. Because he knows it will hurt her even though he really wants to know, even though he really doesn't understand. 

She looks at him for a long moment and he can only see her eyes over the edge of the pages, a ridiculously happy looking family on the cover - like no family he’s ever seen - and then she goes to the bookshelf and pulls out a ratty Penguin Classic with a watercolour of a woman in the cover. She tells him to read it and he protests saying it's a girly book but the hard look in her eyes shuts him down and he reads it. 

_Jane Eyre._

A book his ma used to have, another one that went into the bonfire. One he came across again in high school but didn’t bother to read because he was going to drop out anyway. It chokes him with the memories. But she asks him to, so he reads it.

Despite himself he find he enjoys it even though her insistence becomes transparent as he recognises the dynamic between Jane and Mr Rochester. 

"I ain't gotta crazy ass wife in the attic, you know," he tells her one day and she laughs.

That night as she's riding him, hand braced on his chest, his fingers bruising the delicate skin of her hips as he tries desperately to last for her even though he knows he's powerless under her touch and she can make him go off like a firework in no time, he thinks of how he gets Jane, how he also tried not to love, how he tried to deny the feeling, surgically remove it from his flesh and how he failed. 

_God, she does make him weak._

He explodes at the thought, growling her name, allowing her to gather him to her chest and kiss the top of his head before he rolls them both over and, with energy he didn't know he had, fucks her hard and fast until her voice joins his and she breaks under his hands. Breaks and breaks and breaks.

When it's over and her breathing is quiet and steady he lifts his head from where it's nestled against her shoulder and looks into her eyes. 

She smiles tiredly, as he wipes the sheen of his saliva off her lips.

"Okay?" He asks, voice rough, still breathless.

"Mmm."

"Good."

He kisses her mouth, her cheeks, her neck and then the tip of her nose and she giggles, unwrapping her legs from his waist. But he reaches down and grips her thigh, holding her in place.

"Just for a while Beth," he asks. “Just for a little while.”

And she nods but he knows a while will never be long enough.

~

His jokes get better. Not much, but he tries. Tries because he likes to see her laugh. Likes to see how she sometimes rolls her eyes. How sometimes he grabs her wrist as she makes to punch him and he pulls her close, so close that she can feel how hard he is for her. And he is, he always is. And she likes it and he doesn’t quite know what to do with something so unexpectedly wonderful.

He feels like a sap. He feels like this is all right and all wrong at the same time. Like he’s never felt more at peace and also never felt more terrified in his life. He goes with it though. He lets himself believe it’s okay. Thinks good thoughts and finds reason to carry on doing so. Until the days come and he thinks it’s all going to fall apart and he’s on edge for hours waiting for a something awful to happen. 

Those days get fewer and further between though. And somehow she seems to know when he’s having one. He snaps at her a little too easily and then he holds her a little too tightly and he thinks she knows he wants to crawl inside her and hide forever. They deal with it. Handle it well even. Sometimes they talk it through, other times she presses her lips to his and her hands find their way under his shirt, into his pants and it’s not long before they’re both naked and he is losing himself inside her. And she feels so good, she feels so so good he doesn’t even have the words to begin describing it. And he thinks about all the things he wants to do with her, the things they haven’t done yet either because they haven’t got there or because he has, well, he has issues. And yet still he wants more, wants to make her come in as many different ways as he can. 

She may not be hard to please, but he does want to please her as best he can. 

And when he’s collapsed on top of her after, spent and panting, barely able to even think of anything outside of how good she smells and how hot and wet she feels around his cock, he believes that he could die a happy man and that dying is not so bad. Even Merle's voice has gone quiet and the only thing he hears is his own heart and the sound of her kisses on his lips.

It’s a strange existence in some ways. He finds he doesn’t know what to do with himself at times. He’s meticulous about checking the walls, reinforcing the gates and dispatching of any stray walkers who may wander too close to them. He keeps the car in good nick, making sure they have gas, making  sure it’s stocked with food and ammo in case they need to get out quickly. He checks that every day even though he knows there is nowhere for any of their stuff to go.

He realises late one afternoon as they’re sitting on the couch that for the first time in forever there is nowhere for him to go, nothing for him to do. And he’s fine with that. Somehow, he’s not fidgety. He has everything he needs. Everything he could ever want.

In fact he has more.

And he can’t believe that this is his world now. Part of him feels undeserving, part of him waits for her to come to her senses and tell him to fuck off and leave her alone, stop being so damn presumptuous when he puts his hands on her, on that shameless curve of her ass, the warm swells of her breasts, that hot wet place between her legs. 

But another part of him is more confused than ever before. He knows she’s patient, he knows she is kind, but he never saw this anywhere before. Not with his ma and old man, not with Merle and any of the women he shacked up with at any given time. That was screaming and shouting, throwing pots and pans and inevitably blows and curses and tears. He never saw anything good come out of a man and a woman being together in this way. Not once.

And yet.

Yet.

Right now he can’t even begin to worry about that. Because right now, he’s so high on her and them and what they can do in this house and in their bed, that nothing else seems to matter.

Nothing at all.

So he reaches over to her squeezes her knee gently and she looks up at him and smiles, plants a kiss on his jaw and lets him draw her to his chest.

He’s no good with words. Not these ones at least, She’s said she loves him, said it the first night they lay here on the floor, naked and wet and sticky. She shows it every day. And he hasn’t said it back, although there’s a deep and dark part of him that knows that if she loves him, then what he feels for her has no words remotely suitable for describing it. It’s too hard and too raw and too deep for something as simple as words.

But maybe this will work, maybe she can somehow feel it in his pores, coming off his skin and into hers. Maybe he doesn’t have to find the words.

He turns to her, catches her mouth with his, slides his tongue across her lips, her teeth. And she melts under him. Lets him push her down into the couch, tangle his hands into her hair and maneuver himself into that soft warm space between her legs.

“God Beth,” he mouth against her skin.

_God Beth._

And she giggles, a silly light giggle that he feels all the way down to his toes and back. And it makes him growl against her throat, growl as he can feel her pulse fluttering beneath her skin. And he wants her so much it hurts. Hurts in his chest, his throat, his cock. Hurts in his heart. He thinks he’ll put his mouth on her the way she likes, run his tongue along her where she’s wet, hard thorough strokes that’ll get her hot. He thinks he really wants to do that for her, taste her and drink her and swallow her.

But then she stiffens and plants a hand in his chest, pushing him up, away from her. 

At first he thinks she heard something and he strains to listen over the noise of the fire and the tinkle of the cutlery barrier outside. There’s nothing, nothing but the wind and Bo’s puppy snores from his blanket in the corner.

He looks down at her confused but she’s unyielding against him and pushes harder at his chest so that he’s forced onto his knees as she sits up.

Briefly, he wonders if this is it, If the girl has finally realised his old redneck hands are no good on her body, if she’s finally coming to her senses and breaking his heart in the process. Couldn’t blame her. He thinks of Junie Day. Couldn’t blame her either.

But then she leans in close, slides a hand around his neck and kisses his collarbones, before cupping his face in her hands and tilting his head to look at her. And he knows whatever she says next will be big. That it’ll tear the ground out from under him and leave him flailing. But she’ll catch him, hold him together because she always does.

She touches her lips to his, long and lingering, fingers running through his hair, across his cheekbones and then she takes a breath and asks him if he trusts her. And she looks so earnest and so concerned that he has to stifle a chuckle. Not just at her, but at the question. Of course he trusts her, of course he does. Ain’t no one in his whole life he’s ever trusted more. 

Even so, he tells her no, not with his honour, never with that, because he’s seen what she can do and it’s fucking frightening. And she rolls her eyes and pokes his ribs so he laughs and grabs her hand kissing her palm gently before whispering yes, yes he does trust her. 

He trusts her so much it hurts. 

She’ll never really know how much.

And she runs her hand down his face, thumb over his lips before reaching down to undo his shirt, cool fingers gliding along his neck and collarbones, sneaking under the fabric to rub his shoulders, to test the muscle he carries there. 

She takes her time with each button and he shivers as her knuckles graze his skin. This isn’t new, she likes to undress him - _fuck knows why_ \-  likes to uncover him in her own way, in her own time. Almost as much as he likes doing the same to her. And she’s done it now many times, many nights, and still his breath hitches in his throat when she does. And he still feels like he can’t breathe when her clothes come off too and he can see all of her. 

He wonders at this though. She has something in mind, that much he can see and he wants to ask her what but she’s pressing soft kisses to his lips as she goes and he stops worrying. She hasn’t led him astray yet, she won’t now.

When his shirt is on the floor she looks up at him, runs a finger along that scar she put her mouth to that first night. That first night from another time, another life, but this time and this life too. She kisses him once on the lips. Gentle, chaste and he balls his hands into fists, nails digging into his skin not to grab her and take her right there. 

“Okay,” she whispers, soft and husky and he can’t decide if he hears a hint of nervousness. And he’s so hard already. So, so hard it almost hurts.

She reaches down, fumbles at the edge of her sweater and pulls it over her head, hair snagging on the neckline as she dumps it next to his shirt. Her bra is next, quick, easy, movements fluid and graceful. And for a moment she just looks at him, lets him look back, lets his eyes consume her. His fingers flex at his side, stuttering in the air as he forces himself to sit still, to not palm her breasts, not reach for the button of her jeans, the scarred skin of her wrist.

He’s still not sure what’s going on.

And then she asks him to turn around, face away from her on the couch, offer his back to her. And he barely hesitates as he complies, barely even thinks about it. She asked if he trusted her, he said yes. This is how he proves it.

But he does stiffen slightly as she runs her cool fingers along the lines of his scars. It’s not like before, not like the first night or the day after. It doesn’t feel like he’s being dumped in cold water anymore, doesn’t feel like he’s something ugly, something unworthy, something unloved. He guesses he’s stopped being embarrassed in front of her and barely thinks about it while her nails dig into his back when she's beneath him and he's moving against her. 

But then there’s this.

And this is different. This is deliberate.

"Whatcha doin' back there?" He asks trying to keep his voice light as her lips touch the edge of the biggest, ugliest scar that runs from his shoulder down the length of his back, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. It's one he remembers well. Right after that bonfire of books, his ma had done nothing but commiserate with Jim Bean and Peter Stuyvesant, holed up in her room while his dad was on a bender with a hooker. Merle was in juvie and, desperate for attention, desperate to not be alone, Daryl had stolen a copy of _Frankenstein_ from the school library to help his ma remake her collection. He was caught and, just his luck, his dad came back the same day, drunk, angry, volatile, breaking a cane on his back before taking a belt to him.

"Beth?" He asks again, voice strangled.

"Reminding you," she says as her lips trace the scars across his shoulders, turning them to fire and liquid and ice. Turning them to heat and cold, water and earth, day and night.

He doesn't understand at first. He doesn't need reminders of his scars, but then he realises that's not what she means. She's reminding him of who he is now, of what they have now, of how far he's come. And he grips the edge of the couch until his knuckles turn white and lets her remind him.

Remind him of the belt and the cane, the words that cut deeper than both. The blows to his head and stomach. And she works her mouth and hands over him, down one monstrous line and up another, over each memory, each hurt, each pain. 

She asks him if it feels good, she asks him if he likes it.

And he nods and he whimpers because yes, it does feel good. It feels like hell on earth but it also feels like heaven. And he’s slowly losing the ability to tell the difference.

_And what about this Daryl? And what about that?_

And it’s all exquisite, exquisite and surreal, from the wetness of her mouth to the soft press of her breasts to the way her hair brushes against him. Part of him wants to weep, but a bigger part just wants to fall at her feet and hold her forever. Thank her for what she’s given him, not just today but all the days before and the all the days after.

When her touch gets too much and the noise in his head loses the battle against the ache in his loins, he pulls her into his lap, helps her with her jeans and underwear and let's her take him right there on the couch, the gloomy afternoon sunlight playing off her skin. 

And she's soft and gentle and he knows he can't call it fucking anymore.

~

The other shoe drops. It has to. He always knew it would. And yet it doesn’t come in the way he expects, not with a mouthful of rage, not with tears and cursing. There are no walkers, no claimers, no roaming black cars with white crosses. It’s none of that. It’s a pull factor, not a push one in the end that has them leaving their little lego house, number seven with the blue flowerpot.

They go out on a run. They need food, maybe some fuel. They take Bo because Beth won’t hear of leaving him behind, and he slobbers all over the back seats and his hot breath fogs up the windows. He wears a red leather collar that Beth found. He’s learning to walk properly on a lead, understands basic commands.

Yeah, maybe him and Bo have more in common than he feels comfortable admitting.

They need to go a little further afield than normal, their usual haunts depleted, mostly by them perhaps by some survivors somewhere. He’s not sure. He doesn’t like to think of others. There’s him and there’s Beth and then there is Bessie who they don’t see or hear. Other people mean trouble, other people mean claimers and marauders and any manner of human excrement and he’s so not ready to even begin dealing with that. Beth tells him there are good people. He _wants_ to believe her. _Wants_ to but inevitably doesn’t. 

Either way, they have guns and knives and the crossbow and he hopes it will be enough.  


It has to be.

So they drive. They drive far, past overgrown farmland and broken countryside and Beth sings and her sweater is cut low at the neck and he struggles to keep his eyes on the road. It’s not even that cold anymore, spring starting to fight back against the winter, the air heavy, claustrophobic, and the sky all manner of pinks and reds. Ragged clouds like grey ribbons tinged yellow in the weak sunlight. 

_Red sky at night, sailors delight  
Red sky in the morning, sailors warning_

And it’s not night.

He shakes it off, listens to her sing, something sweet, something perfect, something he thinks he should recognise but doesn’t.

It’s fine though, he’s sure when ever he heard it before it didn’t sound nearly as good as when she sings it.

"Gonna come down again," he says after a while and she nods. Spring might be well on it's way and there have been days when it seemed the rain would never stop. It makes travelling difficult, the car isn't built to traverse floods and he has nightmares about getting stuck miles from home with no way back. The plus side is that heavy rain tends to confuse the dead - maybe it's the noise or the sensation of the water beating down on them - but they stay put, unsure and swaying in the wet.

He has to admit that walkers aren’t a problem anymore, not unless you're daft enough to get yourself cornered in a small space, while you're doing something dumb, like say, rescuing a dog from an old music shop. Not that anyone’s stupid enough to do that.

He glances at Bo in the back seat, tongue out, streaks of drool hanging from his lips and shakes his head.

They're fucking crazy. They're really fucking crazy. 

Either way he worries about people more than the dead. He wonders if Beth does too. She’s told him haltingly what happened after the funeral home, how she woke up in the trunk of a car and kicked and screamed until the driver - the _asshole_ \- who took her stopped and let her out. She said he was dressed like a cop and had smooth hands and breath that smelled like rot, barely covered by the mint chewing gum that lolled about inside his mouth. She said he had a dog, a big, slavering beast that barked so loudly she thought it would call all the walkers in Georgia to them. 

He told her he was taking her to Atlanta, that he had a safe place, that she’d fit in well. She said his touch was too close, too presumptuous and his voice was rancid butter, smooth yet foul. Miasmic. And when she tried to get away he slammed her back on the car and told her that she was his now and she should be grateful for how he saved her. 

He’s still out there somewhere. He has her bracelets, cut them off and sucked on one of the leather straps. Took her to an old shack in the woods and told her they’d spend the night there, move for Atlanta the next day. And when she ran he set his dog on her. She doesn’t talk about much after that. Says she got away and there isn’t much more to tell. But he knows she killed the dog, knows that weighs on her, knows she wanted to go back and kill the cop herself. He thinks there’s more to the story but he also thinks she just wants to put it behind her, so he doesn’t push. And he doesn’t make it about him. But he’d kill that fucker with his bare hands if he ever saw him, turn him to rags of skin and bone and he wouldn’t feel one hint of remorse.

“I’m here now with you,” she told him as she rode him hard and fast one night, “I don’t wanna be anywhere else.”

And neither does he. Beth is home. Home is Beth. And maybe she feels the same about him.

It occurs to him then that all his maybes and what ifs make little sense. She’s said the words after all. Said them, put them out there into the world.

_I love you Daryl, only you_

But he hasn’t. And yet _still_ he doesn’t trust it. And all he thinks is that it’s because he _still_ doesn’t believe a word as simple as “love” could describe what he feels for her. There’s no word for something that breaks you apart and puts you back together and eats you up, burns you and makes you feel both too big and too small for the world. When there’s a word for that he’ll use it. But that might take a while.

He rests a hand on her thigh as he drives and she covers it with her own. Being able to do this feels new even though it’s not. But he guesses it might take time to get used to finding comfort in being touched. Might be a while before he can take it for granted. And he likes it. Even when they’re not naked and his hands are everywhere on her, he likes being able to reach for her and rest his fingers on her, her shoulder, her back, brush his knuckles on her cheek and down the line of her neck. And he doesn’t tire of her hugs, her hand holds, the way she’ll stand on her toes and kiss him out of the blue just because she wants to.

He doesn’t get it, but he doesn’t think he needs to.

No shame in just going with it.

“We gotta go far?” she asks and he shrugs.

“Just driving until we find something I guess. We’ll stop when we see a gas station.”

“Think we’ll find gas?”

He shrugs again. Funny thing about the end of the world is that supplies are not as few and far between as you might think. This is especially true when most of the population is dead and not looking for the kind of supplies found in cans. No it won’t last and there’s a distinct lack of fresh food, fruit, vegetables, meat. But it’s not nearly as dismal as you expect. At least not for now. Not yet.

Maybe they don’t have to go that far. Then again maybe they’ll have to go to the end of the world. 

There's a really good chance they're there already. 

Of course there's also a good chance this is just a waste of the time and the fuel they do have. 

But he drives anyway, let's himself daydream about finding a stash, about pumps full of gasoline and a gun shop that hasn't been raided. He worries about their lack of bullets, worries that soon they'll have to get up close and personal with everything, worries about Beth in her bloodied yellow polo, now rags lying on the ground of someone's mini mansion. Someone with a couch of blue chintz and armchairs to match.

Some people man, some fucking people.

She has some stale cereal bars and she offers him a bite. It takes like sawdust sprinkled with sugar and he has to gulp down some water to help him swallow. 

She's so good. She's so fucking good that it hurts his heart. He just wants to wrap her in cottonwool and never let anything bad happen to her ever again. But she won't stand for that. He knows it.

Beth.

_Beth Beth Beth._

His girl.

 _His_ girl.

The clouds are tinged with an ominous yellow, heavy and dark with rain, and yet somehow still rags in the sky as they pull into the outskirts of what seems to once have been a one horse town. He guesses that's better than the no horse town it is now. It’s small and dilapidated, ugly from even before the turn. Old rusting trailers and chicken wire fences, grass long and full of weeds, litter blowing in the wind.

They drive for a little while, winding through the dirty streets, marked with potholes and broken asphalt. He’s pretty sure these roads were almost as bad before the world went to shit. Probably due for some kind of upgrade or overhaul, retarring. He guesses it was a good thing no one wasted their time.

Bo growls low and bares his teeth as they drive past a clutch of walkers feasting on something bloody and unrecognisable on the sidewalk.

“He’s clever, you know,” Beth whispers. “He doesn’t bark, and he doesn’t even growl loud enough for them to hear over all their own gurgling.”

He nods.

She’s right, but he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like this sad little town that probably wasn’t much happier before the world went to shit. In fact, it looks like it was already closely acquainted with things going to shit and probably found the transition easier than most.

It reminds him of where he grew up, rough places with broken fences. Garbage collecting in the gutters, a dumping ground for all the shit society doesn’t want. Wasn’t really a surprise then that the Dixons were there too, fouling up the neighbourhood, making it just that much worse, just that much seedier than it was before. What’s one more beaten housewife looking for redemption in the bottom of a bottle? One more petty criminal, hard with his hands and harder with his belt? Two more hungry snotty-nosed kids destined to replay this story over and over? What’s one more of any of these things? Nothing, that’s what. Absolutely nothing. These people that slip through the cracks, or maybe they’re pushed, because no one likes to see them, no one likes to know them. He’s not sure how much he was pushed and how much he fell, his memories are foggy and it’s too long ago. All he knows is it’s his place, his home, there in the cracks of a broken street, a garden of weeds and a trailer that reeks of booze and sex, stale cigarette smoke and week-old garbage.

_(You got away from it._

_I didn’t._

_You did.)_

He looks to her. She’s staring out the window, staring at the ramshackle houses and the dead, the filth and the decay, oblivious to him and his own internal rollercoaster. Oblivious to how he belongs here. 

She doesn’t care. He knows she doesn’t care who he was before. Doesn’t care about the things he’s done and those that he hasn’t. She doesn’t care about his scars in relation to anything other than how they hurt him and what she can do to make him feel better. He’s started to think she believes that his place is with her. He’s hers and she’s his and nothing else matters. He wishes this were true. Sometimes he almost believes it. Still, he’s never met anyone like her. Never met someone who cries for him and with him, someone who accepts him as he is even as she pushes back against what he does. He tries, he tries so hard not to be an asshole. And he succeeds. Because she shows him he can.

And suddenly he wants to turn this car around, they can find another town, he doesn’t care if it costs them gas and time. He just doesn’t want her here. She’s as out of place as she was in that fucking cabin where she was pure and beautiful and everything else wasn’t. Where he tried so hard to force her to fit in and she wouldn’t. Not because she was better than it, although she is, but because where she goes good things follow. He could no more break her down and turn her into something that belonged in those chipped walls than he could grow wings and fly. He doesn’t want to say she’s an enigma. He really doesn’t. But the truth is, she kinda is.

And yes, she’s too good for this world, but there’s not much he can do about that. But she’s also too good for this town and he _can_ do something about that.

He _can_.

He’s about to turn the car around, just swing it in the street and go back the way they came when she says his name and points down one of the shitty side roads. 

“Look,” she says. “Gas.”

And she’s right. Big red and blue signage, surprisingly clean and bright here in Georgia’s armpit. It’s so close. It would be so easy. There’s only one walker that they can see and not a whole lot of space for any others to be hiding. They could take it out in no time, get the gas they need and be back on the road in under ten minutes. It’s like an oasis in this shithole of a town in this shithole of a world. It’s perfect. She doesn’t even need to get out the damned car.

It would be so easy.

And yet he still wants to turn the car around and leave, find something else, anything else.

The sky is darker than it was before, those ragged clouds closing up the gaps, shutting out the sun. He doesn’t like it. The air feels thick and heavy, like it’s meant for drowning and not breathing and a shiver runs down his spine. This is Bessie all over again, this is Joe and Len, this is chasing a car all night and collapsing beside a railway track and wishing that someone would put you out of your misery. This is just the same and also different.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s check it out, we need to let Bo out anyway.”

And he wants to say no, he really does, but he has no good reason for it. And she’s right, Bo has started to squirm and whine and he doesn’t want to get caught with no gas in the rain, if that is what this shit-for-brains weather is planning on doing.

So he turns into that shitty side street and it feels like a much bigger decision than it actually is. He’s not given to intuition or premonition. His whole life has just about imagining worst case scenarios and preparing for them and it’s served him well for the most part. But this, this feels different, this feels like everything is balanced on a knife edge and turning down that road is going to send them spinning off the blade.

And he doesn’t know why he’s being so dramatic.

Beth’s out the car as soon as he pulls to a stop, hand curled around the hilt of his knife as she plunges it into the walker, into the skull so that it crumples with a groan and a hiss that’s lost in the thick air. Air that smells of metal and copper and rain that might just wash them all away.

He glances at the clouds again as he lets Bo out of the back. They’re growing dark and mean and he doesn’t like it at all. He’s not a fan of the rain, the wet, the cold. Never has been. It’s only now that’s he’s started hating it less. Now that he’s with her and the thought of being confined inside four walls covered in a blanket and wrapped around her while she reads or sings is something he craves. But not before. Rain and cold and confinement inside the trailer with his ma, whatever state she may have been in, was a nightmare. Nowhere to run, less places to hide. It was enough to keep him on edge, waiting for something, _anything_ to happen, for his old man to wake up, for his ma to crash and burn, waiting for Merle. Waiting and waiting and waiting.

He’s so tired of waiting. 

“There’s gas,” she says, voice snapping him out of the weird apocalyptic mess of his head and into the equally weird apocalyptic mess of the reality. “Lots of it.”

And it’s a relief in its own way. The thought of being here in the air and the smell and the clouds and the rot for nothing is almost excruciating in how frightening it is. This all feels like a much bigger risk than he knows it to be, but he can’t shake that cold hand at his back, the icy fingers grabbing at the base of his spine and tugging playfully, almost teasing.

She seems to know he’s on edge too and she lays a hand on his cheek, kisses him briefly on the lips - the hint of a promise in it - before taking Bo and leading him to a lonely patch of grass that he sniffs at eagerly before lifting his leg.

And he wants to tell her to stay close but he knows she knows. She’s not stupid, she has a good head on her shoulders and he trusts her - oh God he trusts her so fucking much it makes his chest hurt - so he leaves it, concentrates on filling up, on finding the empty gas cans they keep in the trunk and lining them up to be topped up. It’ll be okay, as long as they’re quick, it’ll be okay.

The wind is picking up, rushing through his hair, lifting hers and in the distance he hears a loud drone, thunder rolling across the horizon. Grandma Lila always told them that was the sound made when two clouds crashed into each other and he always had this little vision of a cloud, dark and looming flying across a highway in the sky and recklessly changing lanes, no indication of course and careening into a smaller cloud, one that was light and fluffy, all white and wispy. When his eight-year-old self told Merle about it one day, his brother had laughed hard and slapped his thigh, told Daryl he needed to write that shit down because maybe one day he could become a poet or something, asked him if he’d like to smoke tiny little cigarettes and wear a beret.

He didn’t share all too much with Merle after that. 

No great loss.

He glances around, Beth is a little further away now, walking Bo near a sign post, the sign itself nowhere to be seen. He wants to call her back, doesn’t like that she’s too far away for him to get to her in a few short strides.

Another roll of thunder, more wind. The first few drops of moisture against his face, cold and heavy on his cheeks. And then the pump runs dry and he’s screwing the cap onto the last bottle and thinking that this was all worth it and he’s about to call to her, tell her that it’s time to go, they got what they came for and they can leave this shitty two-story town behind them forever, but she’s already shouting his name, her voice high and excited in the thick air.

And for an insane moment he thinks she’s in danger and it’s walkers or claimers or fucking cops with big nasty dogs and he’s swinging the crossbow over his shoulder and forcing the panic out of his mind. He can do this, he can save her. Whatever happens, he’ll deal with it, because he can, because she showed him how.

He won’t even let himself think about it.

But then she’s running towards him, Bo at her heels.

And she’s still calling him, but her voice is breathless and her eyes are shining, mouth curved in a smile he’s kissed so many times he knows the shape of it by heart.

Grabbing at his hands, pulling - no,  _dragging_ \- him across the asphalt, past the lonely patch of grass.

He’s asking her what it is, what the hell is it that has her so excited and acting so daft. But she’s grinning so much she can barely make words beyond his name, so he just follows her, let’s her drag him into her delight. Follow her, now and forever.

And then she stops, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. There’s nothing special here, they’re half in the road, the sidewalk is crumbling and the ground littered with garbage stirred up in the wind.

“What is it girl?” he asks.

And she points down, down at the cracked tar, at the papers and the cans, at the dead leaves and torn plastic bags and he thinks she’s lost her mind. That this fucked up world has finally broken her and she’s seeing things.

He shakes his head. _Come on, let’s go back._

But she’s adamant and points again and even Bo whines and part of him thinks that’s the canine version of an eyeroll.

 _Look_ , she tells him, face full of glee, _look_.

And then he sees it, in amongst the plastic and the dirt, almost hidden. It’s a broken sign, no doubt the one that used to hang on that lonely pole Bo was sniffing. It’s an advertisement, a lunchtime meal deal: sandwich or wrap of your choice, soda pop and a candy bar, all for only $3.50 Monday to Friday. And yeah, sure, it’s not a bad deal but he knows that’s not why she’s excited.

It’s the other writing, brown and crusted, no doubt blood, no doubt blood from something long dead. And the message, eight words written in all caps with three fingers. Eight words that blow his world apart.

_GLENN_  
_GO TO TERMINUS  
_ _MAGGIE SASHA AND BOB_

It’s the other writing.

Her sister was here, her sister, her blood. She passed through here, going to a place called Terminus.

 _Those who arrive, survive,_ he remembers the broadcast, Sitting in that car with Michonne and Tyreese, with Bob. He remembers. He remembers Joe chasing a man, a man who killed one of his own, a man he thought was heading to Terminus too.

He wonders if Joe ever found them. Or if Joe is now chasing two men, one who killed one of his own and one with a girl made of steel who killed two more.

_Those who arrive survive._

He thinks it’s bullshit.

But the others, the others could be there. It’s been months. Months and months and months. Months of Beth and months of nothingness and then months and months of more Beth, And he hasn’t thought of the rest of them in real terms in so long. She does, he knows she does, but not him. He’s written a nice little story for them all in his head, one where they’re alive and happy and living out their lives. One where there’s picnics and birthday and summer holidays. One that he and Beth are not a part of. They’re separate but happy and it’s bittersweet, but it means he doesn’t have to worry, doesn’t have to think.

Except now he does, because now she thinks there’s a good chance they really are alive and they really are not too far away and his legs feel like they’re about to buckle. And the air seems thicker than before and he wonders how she’s still breathing it, because it feels like he’s trying to force pea soup into his lungs and breathe on that. May have to evolve gills at this stage.

And he realises that his thoughts are spinning out of control and he’s going a little bit nuts, the way he always does when it feels like there’s just too much space in the world, too many moving parts, too many questions and too many answers. And a million fragmented thoughts are rushing through his head, Glimpses and snatches, Bessie and a citrine bracelet, the blue flowerpot, their attempt at a vegetable patch, the bed they sleep in tangled up together, their little lego house - it’s number seven, number seven and that’s special. All these thoughts, all these things they have but they really don’t and none of it makes any sense. None of it ever has.

But the truth is there is only thought. Only one.

 _Beth_.

Always Beth.

 _Can we go?_ she’s asking, _It’s Maggie Daryl, it’s Maggie and maybe Glenn._

He knows it’s not really a question, knows there isn’t another answer to this, but he wants to say no, wants to selfishly pretend they never saw the sign. Even though he doesn't and it sparks and snuffs his hope simultaneously - the thought of seeing Glenn, Maggie. Hell even Bob.

But still he wants to say no, wants to bundle her and Bo up and take them back home where they'll sit in front of the fire, eating arrabiata and making love after. Wants to pretend this sign doesn’t exist. 

But it does. And go they must.

Of course they can go. He'll follow her to hell if that's what she needs. He’s still earning his place at her side, he won’t give that up now.

And she throws herself into his arms and hugs him so tightly that he can feel her joy flowing into his veins and her hope eating up his flesh. If he didn’t know better he’d think he could smell it in her hair, smell the sunshine and the sweetness, the freshness and the purity.

And he wraps his arms around her tight and hard, presses kisses into her skin, her cheek, her neck. She trembles in his arms as the rain starts to fall and he knows she’s thinking about all they could gain, how they could get their family back and he also knows she hasn’t thought of everything they’re going to lose, because it’s trivial to her.

He wonders if she knows that all this sign really means is that Maggie was alive months ago, that Terminus existed months ago. That they’ve been through this before and she’s ended up lost and crying on the roadside with bloody bones at her feet and a child’s shoe in her hands. He doesn’t want to hurt her but _oh God_ , this could hurt so much worse.

He wonders if she knows. He wonders if it would make a difference if she did.

And he wants to be happy, happy for him and happy for her.

He wants it, but as the rain starts to fall hard and fast on them, he doesn’t know if he can.

They drive back through a storm and when they get home he takes her in the entrance hall hand braced against the wall. Takes her like he wanted to all those months ago with her legs wrapped around his middle and their clothes scattered on the floor, her hair tumbling over his shoulders, and his breath coming out in hard grunts against her flesh. And when she’s come and so has he, he goes down on his knees, holds her hips tightly in his hands and uses his lips and tongue and teeth to send her into oblivion again. 

Once it felt like worship, now it feels like begging.

Afterwards, she holds him to her breast and kisses his hair, runs her fingers down his back. Tells him she loves him and everything will be fine as long as they’re together. Them and Bo. And he nods and is grateful she can’t see that there are honest to God tears streaming down his face. She kisses him again and unwinds herself from him, gathers their clothes and heads for the shower.

And he checks that everything is locked up tight and there are no windows open and he rests his hand on the door frame like he did the night she stripped naked for him and held his gaze so that he couldn’t look away.

He remembers how it felt like the grain of the wood was the only thing stopping him from floating away, how the sturdy feel of the house grounded him and kept him sane, even as she seemed to be trying her very best to drive him to madness. He remembers how he carried her up these steps, how he lingered in her doorway and she invited him into her bed.

He remembers it all.

They leave in five days. It’s a random number but they have Bessie to consider.

They leave in five days regardless.

He blows out the last candle.

So it’s just a home, the best home he’s ever had.


	10. Exodus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A good 90% of this chapter was unexpected. Honestly I didn't see a lot of this coming. This is also the first time that I've really messed with reality in this story in such an overt way. Sure, there have been hints of it before - the abandoned car conveniently placed on the railway tracks, the fact that there are almost no walkers where Beth and Daryl lived. Don't worry, this story is not going to become supernatural in any way, at least no more than it is canonically outside of reality, but there are hints of destiny and fate at work here.
> 
> The soundtrack for this chapter is also kind of weird and you'll see why when you read it. I'm hoping to start updating more frequently now that things at work are winding down and I've made a conscious decision to avoid 20000 word chapters.
> 
> Thanks again for all your support.
> 
> Soundtrack:  
> I'd do anything for love - Meatloaf  
> Here I go again - Whitesnake  
> Wouldn't it be good - Nik Kershaw  
> Take me back home - Soulsavers  
> Love thieves - Depeche Mode

**  
** Five days later - she tells him it's a Saturday - and they stand outside the house staring at its drawn curtains, the shut door. Shut forever maybe, he’s not sure. There are a lot of things he’s not sure about anymore. 

It still looks like Lego to him though, with its white bricks and bright blue flowerpot, the dark wood porch where he cradled her head in his hand and she knew, without him having to explain, all the reasons he needed her as much as he did. As much as he still does. He thinks he can see them there now, his arm bandaged and bloody, her shivering against him, how she took him inside and into their bed and held him, told him he was good, he was worth it. How she made him feel safe for the first time in his life. 

This house, this _home._ **  
**

This _girl_.

He sometimes looks at her and wonders if she’s real and he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

He’s stopped trying to put what he’s feeling into words, he’s not even sure the right ones exist. He knows it’s just a place and, at the end of the day, there are lots of places. Places better than this one. Places more secure with more food. Places not stuck lonely and isolated at the end of the world, although he never saw that as a bad thing. The world is big now, bigger than it ever was and maybe he was just fooling himself when he thought they had carved out a space in it. That they could live here forever, until the end, however that would come. Once he thought one set of four walls was as good as any. He no longer believes this to be true.

On some level he gets he’s being dramatic, melodramatic even. It's not like they were here for that long. Six months? Maybe seven? A blip in his life, a hiccup. Nothing more. Although maybe that isn't true for the new world. Maybe seven months _is_ a lifetime. But he’s not sure that matters. Beth would say it does though. She’d insist and he’s starting to believe her too, starting to think that _how_ you spend the time you have is more important than how much of it you spend. And that's the rub, that's why he feels like he does, why he doesn't want to leave and why he'll probably always think of this house as his home, his first real home, his first foray into the world as a real honest-to-God adult. So many memories, so many firsts.

So many things they’re giving up.

He remembers carrying her inside, picking her up in his arms and laughing his way to the front door and beyond, her lips pressed to his jaw, a giggle against his skin, and how he didn't want to believe any of this was possible. 

And the days that followed and the nights that followed those days.

He didn't carry her out and it seems fitting that she walked out by herself. He didn't think he could anyway. They’re both too heavy with grief.

He looks over to her, she’s leaning against the car, chewing on her thumb and he thinks she looks just as defeated as him.

The last couple of days have been a blur of packing and organising, plotting routes that don't go through the cities, and trying to figure out where they'll spend nights. Not that it will take too long, they have a car after all and Georgia isn't that big, but it lies between them, unspoken, that neither of them want to rush this trip. And that  - that unvoiced desire - scares him more than anything else. That they're trying to draw this last bit of goodness out slowly, make it last a little longer, burn a little brighter is more telling than anything they’ve said or haven’t said to each other about it. It’s almost enough to make him want to call quits on the whole thing. Sure, they’re moving towards Maggie, sure it’s a possibility they could find her, but at the same time they’re also moving towards something else, something he knows with alarming clarity isn't necessarily good. Something has to give, some balance has to be found and he doesn't think they get to have it all anymore. They've been ridiculously lucky for the last little while and at some point the debt is going to need to be paid. He thinks they're heading to it now. Thinks the long arm of whatever law now has favour is soon to be knocking.

This mad little trip could, and likely will, end in blood and heartache, if not for the others then for them.

Definitely for them.

Either way - and he tries so hard not to think of the bad things all the time - they've agreed to take it slow, no rush. An extra day or two is not going to make a difference. They both know this. 

"We'll come back," she says softly. "If we find Maggie, we'll come back here with her and Glenn and Sasha and Bob. There's enough space, we can live here forever."

She sounds like she's trying to convince herself and he's not sure if that's about finding Maggie or coming back. But it doesn't matter because there are tears on her cheeks and he slides an arm around her shoulders and pulls her to him so that his chin rests on her head and her lips against his neck.

He wants to say it'll be okay, but he doesn't quite believe that and he tries so hard not to lie to her, so instead he kisses her hair and holds her tighter, rocks them a little in the first hint of spring warmth. 

They need to go. They can’t linger. If they do, they might change their minds, might just say fuck it all and go back inside. Never speak of it again. And he doesn’t hate that idea. He doesn’t think she does either. It would be easy. It would be so so easy.

But they can’t, they both know it. You don’t get to go back. You just don’t. It’s just not the way the world works anymore. 

In any case they also need to go to Bessie, see if she's waiting for them even though he knows she won't be. But they can’t leave her, can’t just stop with the food deliveries. That's like taking a feral kitten from its mother, taming it for years and then tossing it back into the wild to fend for itself. 

Yeah, he knows that’s a metaphor for himself as well. His lack of self-awareness doesn’t stretch that far.

He wonders sometimes what would happen if Beth tossed him out one day, if she just called it quits. Sure, he'd survive but that’s not what he’s worried about. The thought makes him feel a bit sick. If there’s one thing he knows deep in his bones it’s that at some point everybody leaves. Doesn’t matter who you are, doesn’t matter if you didn’t mean to. You leave and when you do, you leave people behind. His Ma, Merle, Junie Day, even his piece of shit old man. Yeah, there’s only one common denominator there.

He shakes his head. He doesn't want to think on it and he forces his mind back to Bessie. They left a note, a note that said they were leaving and they couldn't bring her food anymore but she could come with them, if she waited for them this morning they'd take her with to wherever the hell they are going.

He knows it’s a shot in the dark, he knows they haven’t done enough. He knows other things too. Things he's afraid of thinking, things he's afraid of saying. But they're there, little parasites on the edge if his imagination, gnawing away at the goodness, leaving only darkness behind.

He kisses Beth's hair again.

"We should go," he says, voice rough and low and she nods, wiping at her eyes.

And then she kisses him, long and hard and deep, her tongue hot and wet inside his mouth as her hands force their way into his hair, nails scraping along his scalp. Desperate. Needy.

Almost as desperate and needy as him. 

He backs her into the car, because if he doesn't he knows he'll be carrying her inside again, and slides a knee between her thighs presses hard against her hip and fists his hands in her hair, bunching it in his fingers on either side of her head. She’s sweet, she’s _so_ sweet and he wants to lose himself in her, drown in her again and again. It wouldn’t even be a sacrifice. Wouldn’t be hard at all. He had her last night, fast and rough first and then slow and gentle after and she left him a breathless bundle of nerves curled around her, head against her breast. He thought it was over, he thought she chased the demons away along with that searing desire, but she didn’t.

It's all back. All that fear, all that want and he's already rolling his hips against her, letting her feel how hard he is, letting her know he'd take her right there with tears on her face and sobs in the back of her throat and she’s grasping at him, hands sliding under his shirt, nails digging into his skin, his scars, making her own, putting her marks on him, the only marks besides his ink that he wants, that he welcomes. He still can't believe it. Still can't believe that she needs him, loves him even. That in some world that certainly can't be this one she sized him up and didn't find him wanting. And then somehow made a place for that here with him. So he kisses her harder, tracing his tongue over her teeth, tasting her and touching her and trying to lose himself in this little safe bubble they've created.

But it has to end - all good things do - and eventually they both pull back, gasping and shaking. There are more tears on her face but he's not sure if they belong to him or her.

She forces a smile. "Come on, there's time for that later."

And he nods but he can't keep that little voice, the one he tells himself doesn't sound like Merle, out of his head.

_Is there brother? Is there?_

Yeah there is. There _has_ to be.

He kisses her again, slow this time. She's so pretty in the morning light, fresh and pale, hair gleaming and eyes bright. He wants to say he loves her, but he's not sure he knows what those words mean and if he can do them justice. So he says her name instead, hopes that somehow she knows that's his answer for everything, his way of saying words he can't.  


"I love you Daryl," she breathes. And his insides burn. They've made no promises, no declarations of ever after. Maybe that was because they thought they already had it. Life is different now, you don't get to up and leave on a whim. But now he wonders if maybe they should have. Maybe he should have said and done more with her breathless _I love yous_ pressed against his sweaty skin. Maybe he should have said more than _Beth_ and hoped she understood that it meant so much more than just her name.

_My girl, my lovely girl._

He runs a hand through her hair, touches her lips and she nods once, all business, and slides behind the wheel, Bo immediately jumping from the back to the passenger seat to sit beside her. Mutt thinks he’s a person. He thinks he gets that. Sometimes he thinks so too. 

He opens the gate. Part of him considers taking the chain and the bolt with them, but the thought of leaving this place unprotected, for the dead to take up residence is just too awful to contemplate. So he locks it up again and shoos Bo out of his seat when he gets to the car.

She smiles at him and he thinks it could be gratitude. She feels it too, the loss of it all.

"Bessie?" She asks and he nods. It's worth a shot. It has to be.  


So they drive to the old house, pull up close to the lawn and wait. They wait for a long time and he holds her hand in his, running his thumbs over her palm, trailing his fingertips over her flesh and thinking about how her fingers tasted of her and him last night and how he'd run his tongue over each one until her whole body shivered and shook. His desire for her is not unusual, he wants her almost constantly. The day he realised she welcomed his touch and wanted him too it was like the floodgates opened and the world as he knew it shattered. Just being able to touch her in itself was a comfort. And he pretty much wants her all the time even though he can usually keep the coals in his belly burning low and hot. Today is different though. Today he can't take his eyes off her, can't stop imagining different ways he could have her, can't stop that burn bursting into flame. And he knows it's stuff like this that makes you reckless, gets you killed.

But his eyes are drawn to her neckline, the small rises of her breasts beneath her pink shirt, then to her thighs, the tight dark jeans, her cowboy boots, scuffed and worn. He's never kissed her feet and suddenly he wants that. Kiss her feet and work his way up from there, her ankles, her knees, her thighs...

"I don't think she's coming," she says softly and he drags his eyes away from her and looks at the door.

"Lemme check," he says unfastening his seatbelt and pushing at the door handle, but she grabs at his hand and pulls it to her mouth, kisses it.

"Be careful," she says and he gives her a small smile.

"Ain't going inside," he tells her and brushes his lips against hers. "Just going to see."

He makes his way up the steps to the porch, tries to look in through the windows but they're dark and dusty and he can't see a damn thing. The house itself looks the same as always, grim and abandoned, broken. A nasty place to stay and a nasty world to live in. He wonders what's inside now, if it's just Bessie or if she's managed to keep the walkers from leaving the bed, if they're still there rotting away until one day they break free and feast on her. He thinks he hears a groan, faint, pained and a sense of dread winds it's way around his spine.

What the fuck are they doing here anyway? Bessie is half crazed, she nearly fucking killed him, she thought he was like them, keeping Beth prisoner and hurting her, forcing her to do things she hated. The thought clenches in his belly, briefly extinguishing those flames of desire he's been feeling. They come back though, right back, finding their way around his dread and crawling up into his chest.

Still, what are they thinking believing they can bring this feral girl on a road trip across the state? How can they trust her, how do they know she won't kill them in their sleep. He honestly doesn't know how either of them thought they could pull such a ridiculously wild plan off.

It turns out they don't have to.

There's an envelope stuck on the door. It has his name on it and he can feel something round and hard inside it when he tugs it off. He's not sure he wants to know what it is, not sure his heart can take it. Everything is out of place and wrong and he’s ready to shelve the whole thing, go back to Beth and beg her just to turn the car around and go back home, because that’s what it is: home. And he can’t believe they’re walking away from it all.

_Beth._

_It’s always been Beth._

He opens the envelope. There are two things inside. The one is a notecard, dirty, smudged with squiggly writing in a blue ballpoint which looks like it was just about out of ink. The message is simple, two words.

_Thank you._

He’s not surprised, not in the least, it was never going to work. It was never going to happen. Why would it? Bessie is too far gone and the sad fact is she knows it too. They can’t help. Not anymore.

The second thing, however, _that_ surprises him. And it scares the shit out of him too because it shouldn’t be possible. It just _shouldn’t_. 

He takes a moment to breathe, to look around, focus on the trees, birds calling from the highest branches, the rusty smell of rain in the warm air. And beneath that something else that he’s not sure is only his imagination. Cigarette smoke, wine, cheap perfume. Fire. Always fire.

_My boy, my wonderful, wonderful boy. The best thing I’ve ever done._

No.

He can’t, he _won’t_. 

He looks down at his hands, tells himself he’s being crazy, knows he isn’t. It’s for Beth, he knows it is, even if Bessie doesn’t. It was always meant for her, meant to slide around her wrist and sit there forever. Meant for her many years before she was even born, before he was too. A thin silver bracelet, three delicate blue opal heart charms hanging from the chain. And for a moment he just looks at it, the way the sunlight glints off it, the way the opals sparkle like Beth’s eyes.

This is what he was looking for when he stupidly walked into this house a million years ago. This is hers, this is his Ma’s. He dares - _dares_ \- to think it’s the same one. 

_By God’s cosmic fucking hand._

She had it all along.

She _knew_.

He doesn’t know what to make of it, can’t really think about it for now because it’s just too fucking weird. This whole day just feels surreal. It's insane to think this could be his Ma's bracelet. It's absolute madness. But it is. He knows deep in his bones that it is.

So he sighs, touches the door once and then walks back to Beth, Bo, his life. They’ve brought a box of tinned food and few other essentials for this scenario and he leaves that on the bottom step before climbing into the car, pushing Bo to the back.

“She’s not coming?” It’s phrased as a question but it sounds like a statement and he shakes his head, looks back at the house, the door, the broken windows and the darkness within.

“You wanna go inside?” she asks and he shakes his head again. Not that. Anything but that.

He takes another moment, closes his eyes, breathes out and then turns to her, looks her squarely in the eye.

“She left you this,” he holds out the chain, lets it dangle between them for a few seconds before she takes it into her hands and studies it. Studies his Ma’s bracelet.

“It’s beautiful,” she says softly and he nods. Nods because he can’t speak and he’s choked up and he worries if he does he’s just going to break down crying. 

He won’t tell Beth. Not yet. He won’t tell her how difficult this is, how difficult leaving is. He won’t tell her that he thinks that the scrap of jewellery she’s holding once fitted around his Ma’s skinny wrist. He won’t tell her that he brought it back, the same way his old man gave it away.  


It’s too much. It’s all too much.

He takes her hand, turns it palm up, runs his thumb across that thin white scar, a line that turns silvery in the moonlight, that he's kissed and licked and scraped his teeth along. He kisses it now and clips the bracelet over it. He thought he'd be clumsy. He thought he'd fumble with the catch but he doesn't. 

“It didn’t suit her,” he says and he’s not talking about Bessie. “She knew it. It’s better on you.”  


“I’ll keep it safe for her,” she whispers voice cracking. “Just until we come back.”

_Oh my girl, my dear sweet girl. We can’t come back. Not in this world. You don’t get to do that._

But he kisses her anyway, kisses her because those flames are searing him, burning him up inside and he wants to take her again, have her like he did last night, lose himself in her. And when she pulls back they’re both breathless and they don’t talk as she drives away.

~~~

They've plotted a route but they know they need to be flexible. Places are overrun, highways blocked, so they start by heading back to the gas station and following the road out of the town. There are walkers here, not many, but still more than they've seen closer to home.

_Number seven, with the blue flowerpot._

Christ he really needs to stop thinking that way. They'll never have people over for dinner, kids to come and play. It's not an address anymore and they don't need to give directions. But still.

_Still..._

They weave their way through the dead, Bo growling low and soft from the backseat. He hopes the numbers will thin soon because he can't see how they'll get through thicker herds and he can't deal with a repeat performance of the veterinary college run.

Can't imagine having to drag Beth and Bo from this car and try and make it back home. 

Luckily he doesn't have to. 

There are fewer and fewer walkers as they exit the town and she turns onto the highway. They've discussed this route, decided it was best even if they hit obstacles. There are enough turnoffs along the way that they can backtrack but this is the most direct route. They could get lucky.

They _could_.

She sees it as a genuine possibility. He's not so sure. But they make good time and walkers are scarce he willing to consider the idea that he could be wrong. Maybe things don't have to be bad all the time, maybe this is a beginning more than an end. Maybe. But maybe he's also getting ahead of himself and he should back up. They're not out of the woods yet, not by a long shot. 

But despite his own misgivings, he starts to feel some of the tension easing from his shoulders. He allows himself to find a silver lining, if only for a moment. They’re here, with a tank full of gas, and each other. It seems like a good start, seems a damn sight better than what most people have these days. And the most wonderful girl in the whole wide world loves him and stands by his side. Yes he’s tense and dread gnaws at the pit of his belly. But he’s used to that. It’s there more often than not these days, only leaving when they’re inside and alone and shut away from the world. He knows how to deal. He knows how to cope.

So he does.

In his own way.

Sort of.

He makes a conscious decision to let himself be distracted by her, by the lean line of body her next to him, the way she drives. He feels Merle rear up ready to say something about women drivers and manages to shut him back down. 

Not here. Not _now_.

There are CDs in the glovebox. Beth found a stash at Mr and Mrs Dudebro - _Power Ballads from the 80s and 90s_ \- and he grabs one at random and shoves it into the player. And the bad music helps, even if it does make him think of the seedy bars Merle dragged him along too when he should have been at home, in bed, preparing for school.

He finds a strange sort of comfort in it. A perverse enjoyment of Meatloaf and his emphatic declarations that he won't do that, of Whitesnake going down the only road they've ever known, of Joe Cocker and his chained heart.

She sings along every now and then, songs she’s way too young to know the words to. Mainly the bigger hits, the songs that have been covered or still got radio play before everything went to shit. And she sounds better than some poodle pop hair metal one hit wonder anyway. Also she makes him laugh despite himself. She bounces a little in her seat and drums on the steering wheel, pretends to take the words very seriously. He knows it's for his benefit, that she trying to tell him it's okay and keep him focused on the good things.

And that’s not something he’s ever had before. Not just that silliness, that excess, but someone who cared enough to try and make him happy. He didn't understand it at first but he gets it now. He gets a lot of things now. And he realises that means, more than anything, that he has a lot to lose.

_Beth, my blue-eyed girl._

At midday they stop on an abandoned stretch of highway, walk into the long grass, flecked with yellow daisies and lie down in the sun, Bo between them.

He looks at the sky, carrion birds circling high above them, black shadows against the blue and he thinks of how they ran from the prison, how he followed the bounce of her long hair, her thighs long and lean and faster than he imagined. He can't remember much of how he felt then. He can cycle through it, the hurt, the rage, the blame. He knows they were all there, that they all played a part one way or the other. But what he remembers more than anything, the one thing that stands out among all the rest was that even then she was his life. Angry as he was Beth Greene became the centre of his universe the day they ran through those smoking prison gates and out into this shithole of a world. At the time he thought it was his mission to make her strong, to make her tough, but she already was. So strong, so tough. And then he thought it was his mission to make her like him, unfeeling, stoic, empty. He's never been so proud of a failure. 

Even when he loses he wins.

He looks over at her, she's chewing on a strip of jerky, squirrel he thinks, and running her fingers through Bo's fur. It's started to go glossy, no longer the strange puppy fluff he used to have. He's also put on some muscle and even though he still has no idea what kind of a mutt he is, he thinks he's beautiful.

"Hungry?" She asks and he takes it as an invitation, rolling over and onto her, pushing her down into the grass, nudging her legs open and moving against her as he grazes his lips along her jaw.

He thinks she'll play coy. He's expecting it, but she doesn't. She melts under him, body soft and welcoming as she finds his mouth with hers, presses heady kisses along his lips, tongue stroking against his and across his teeth. And he loses his mind a little. He'd take her right there, his hands already finding her breasts, squeezing them through the thin material of her top. And she's moaning, arching upwards, grinding herself gently against his cock, breath hitching as he pushes back.

And then they hear Bo, that low guttural moan. His warning, his contribution to their family. The way he earns his keep.

They both freeze and he pulls away, grabbing the crossbow and peeking out into the grass. He sees them instantly, a group of five. Shambling. Limping. Not close, but close enough. And he knows they can't stay, that he can't have her in the pale sunshine, lose himself in the smell of her, the whisper of the grass.

"Come on," he says, taking her hand, seeing the sunlight catch on the opals, and hauling her up. She sighs, more than a little disappointment in it and something inside him clenches deep and tight. That she could want him is still a mystery he can't even begin to solve. That he can make her wet and draw goosebumps out of her skin, cry his name and beg, yes beg, him to fuck her isn't something that makes a whole lot of sense to him and he wonders how long he can keep ignoring it.

And now is so not the time.

They head back at the car, get Bo in and she slides behind the wheel, waits for him while he scans the horizon, the long grass, the walkers grey and lurching against it. They've seen them now and are moving towards the road, they're probably going to have to drive around them and he doesn't know why the thought fills him with dread. 

"Daryl?" She calls and he snaps his attention back to her, shakes his head and climbs into the passenger seat, shuts the door sharply.

"Ready?"

No. No he's not ready. She knows that. But looking at her now, neither is she.

He nods.

She smiles, leans over and brushes her lips against his jaw and he runs a hand through her hair, down her neck and over her shoulder. He could touch her like this forever, run his fingertips over her skin, down her ribs, round her hips. He's done it before. Some nights he'd undress her and just trail his fingers over her, trace her curves and her edges. It's all so new, all so wonderfully indescribably new.

But not here, not now with a dead audience and miles still to go. There'll be time. There has to be.

She starts the car. The walkers have moved into the road in front of the car and he expects they'll start heading towards them but they don't. Instead they just stand there, five across, shoulder to shoulder, like they're guarding something and he realises with a jolt that not only are they fresh, they're also dressed in army fatigues. Sure they're stained with blood and God knows what else, but the khaki pattern is unmistakeable. Three of them even have assault rifles strapped to their backs, and fuck if he doesn't wish they could get their hands on those. 

"What are they doing?" She asks softly, a nervous flutter in her voice.

He squints, chewing the inside of his cheek, jaw working hard. 

"Dunno," he says. "Want me to drive?"

She shakes her head.

"I can get past them, I'm just wonderin' why they're not comin' any closer."

He wonders too. This all feels very backwards, very wrong and he wishes they would just get moving.

He shrugs.

"We should go."

It's not like he expected anything to happen. They're walkers, fresh or not they're slow and shambling, but he's surprised when it doesn't, when she just weaves the car around them and they make no move towards it, remaining right where they are.

He doesn't understand why but as they move back into the road and pick up speed a word comes to him. Singular, straightforward, apt.

 _Guardians_.

And he has no idea how to feel about that.

~~~

Things are less light after that. It had to happen. It always does. The radio is on but she doesn't sing along and the music is just as awful as before. Nik Kershaw keeps asking him _wouldn’t it be good?_ and the truth is he doesn’t think so.

_Wouldn't it be good to be in your shoes?_  
_Even if it was for just one day_  
_Wouldn't it be good if we could wish ourselves away?_

They see more signs. Every couple of miles there's another. Maggie's writing scrawled in blood. Glenn's name over and over again. She slows at each one, frowns and then speeds up until they see the next. They don’t talk about it. He knows why. He sees how she scrutinises the writing, face full of anticipation and then how she deflates almost immediately. 

He won't ask. She'll tell him eventually, not that she needs to. He knows what's going on and he gives her thigh a squeeze. He’ll write her name on every sign in the world if that would make her happy, write it and keep it and hold it. Write it on his heart even though it’s there already.

"You alright?" She asks and he nods.  


He thinks he is. Alright enough anyway. But he knows he's starting to brood again, that gnawing sense of unease eroding any vestiges of a good mood. He's jumpy and all over the place, he knows this and he can't seem to get a handle on any of it. And he hates it. Since he was a snotty-nosed kid having the shit beaten out of him he’s never trusted sudden changes in mood. Because you can go from an afternoon bordering on pleasant watching the game with your old man, and sure you’d keep your distance, stay out of reach, but still, he wasn’t screaming, he wasn’t breaking things. And then suddenly he was and your face was being smashed against a wall and he was kicking the shit out of you and you had no idea why. 

He gets that he’s frustrated. Not with her, never with her, but just with how messed up this whole situation is. How messed up it’s been for a long time. How it gave them a taste of something, something good and right and perfect and then ripped that away by offering the possibility of something better. He knows they can’t ignore the signs, he wouldn’t want to. This isn’t only for Beth, he knew that the second before his heart dropped into his boots when he saw Maggie's bloody scrawl. Because in that second he felt something akin to elation. He has hope. He's had hope since that night he fell over his words trying to tell her he loved her in a kitchen at the end of the world. Had hope when he realised he could do it, that in some way he was allowed.

But hope aside he never actually thought that meant they would find the rest, maybe that they were alive somewhere and safe but being part of their world again was not even something he considered as a possibility. And that sign, in the moments before he actually processed it, before he actually had a chance to think further than his own desire, it became a beacon, a signpost that told him sometimes things can work out.

And then it was gone. And now all he can think about is what they're losing and what they're still going to lose. And he doesn't know how long he can deal with these feelings. How messed up he is right now, how complicated this all is.

He shakes it away. There are no bad things here. Beth is here and she’s good and perfect and wonderful and she’s wearing his Ma’s bracelet and somehow she loves him and he doesn’t deserve it but he’s trying and he won’t throw it away. Won’t hurt her. Ever. He’ll hurt himself first. Gladly.

_Wouldn't it be good if we could live without a care?_

And then suddenly everything goes for a ball of shit. And all that luck he was banking on runs out. It had to happen. He knew it did. It seems fitting for the kind of day they're having.

She slows, pulls to a stop, keeps the engine running. He can see the turnoff they need to take, it’s almost close enough that he can read the sign, green board, white labels, dried brown blood. He knows what it says, knows Beth’s name isn’t on it, knows it’ll break her heart one more time, so he finds that in a way he’s grateful they can’t get close enough to actually see it, to actually confirm it. 

In front of them is a sea of abandoned cars blocking the highway, they cover the road, pressed tight against each other, some have walkers inside, banging against the windows, and he knows there’s no way around. No way through. They saw this after the CDC, Rick once said this was what Atlanta looked like when he left. He doesn't doubt that it does.

"What now?" She asks.

_We go home, we go straight back home and we never ever leave it again. I’ll carry you inside and we can read together in the candlelight and we can make love in every room._

Instead he tells her to turn the car around, take the exit they saw a couple miles back and see if they can use the smaller suburban roads. So she does, throwing the car into reverse and heading back the way they came and onto the exit, following the route he tells her, past abandoned houses and broken convenience stores, heading left towards the next onramp. And for a while it seems like that's going to work. They talk about not much of anything. It's slow, but they make a good distance. Until they don't. 

Another blockade of cars, this time with trucks, an old school bus even. No way through, no way past, no way around.

She frowns, turns the car around again, doubles back, turns right instead and circles back from the other side. But before they've even gotten close to the onramp they're cut off again, this time by an overturned truck, spanning the entire road, stuck between the Jersey barriers.

They both stare at it speechless for a long long time and he can see her biting her lip, glaring as if the truck it will move simply by the force of her gaze. He doesn't see why it shouldn't though. He's done it, been kicked out of this world and into another simply by looking at her.

The truck however is immune and remains where it is. 

"Guess we should have headed further back," he says and she shrugs like she doesn't quite believe that will help. 

He takes over the driving for a while, she navigates. And again they drive for about an hour before they hit another pile up, and then another and another after that. Cars, cars and trucks and buses, twisted metal everywhere he looks.

 _Looks like someone's trying to tell you something._ That’s Merle. Back from the dead for the third time today.  _Maybe you should listen brother._

Maybe he should. Maybe he really should. This feels wrong. So very insanely wrong, like something is trying to trap them there. And he thinks whatever it is has the right of it. It was a world apart and they're crazy for giving it up.

Eventually he stops. Bo is whining and they need to get their bearings.

"I don't get it," she says opening the door and letting Bo out. "How can every road be blocked?"

He follows her, pulls out the map, spreads it on the bonnet, traces his fingers over the roads they've come. This can't be right. It's impossible that everything is blocked like this. And yet it is.

Somehow. _By God’s fucking cosmic hand it is._

He hears her come up behind him, sliding her arms around his waist, resting her hands on his hips and pressing her head against his arm. And he loves how she feels cool in the heat, the way her hair tickles, the kiss she lays against his bicep.  


_My perfect girl. My perfect blue-eyed girl._

He shows her where they are, scratches his thumb nail across the blocked roads. She frowns, shifting forward a little and he moves to put his arm around her, draw her close, run his fingers down the bare skin of her arm.

“It’s like we’ve been driving in circles,” she says and he’s about to shake his head and tell her they’ve just been unlucky when he sees she’s actually right. It’s not quite circles, but they have been working their way along the same routes, coming at the blockades from different angles, narrowly missing one only to end up at another, turning back and repeating the process. Like rats in a maze. And he’s pretty sure he hates that comparison.

“Okay,” he says. “How about we turn back, but we go left instead of right and then…”

She shakes her head, points to one of his scratch marks.

“We’ll just end up stuck again.”

He frowns. She’s right, but it seems almost impossible. He fucking knows how to navigate. He’s always had a feel for it. He’s had to. Usually he doesn’t even need maps and compasses are a luxury. But this? This is like some bizarre web that they can’t escape, like someone’s playing a big joke on them and fucking with time and space. He hears Merle cackle in his head and he knows why. He fucking knows.

Years ago when it was just the two of them holed up in some shitty apartment block, complete with a cockroach infestation and rising damp on the walls, they’d watched some bizarre late night movie. He’d been drunk, Merle was high and this movie was all kinds of fucked up and he doesn’t think it was because of the state they were in. His memory is sketchy but what he does remember was a bunch of bald men in trenchcoats stopping time every night and rearranging people and places at a whim, fucking with their memories and moving buildings, having people wake up the next day completely embracing their new role, whatever that may be. Yesterday you were a rockstar, today you’re a married accountant whose wife is cheating on you. Tomorrow you're a homeless person with pet cat. He can’t for the love of God remember the why of it, what sick twisted pleasure these stupid fucks got out of messing with everyone. Maybe he fell asleep, maybe he was just too wasted. What he does remember is that Merle wouldn’t let it go. High as he was he ate that shit up and for days all he could talk about was the “what ifs”. 

_What if this is the first time we’re meeting brother?_ he asked. _What if yesterday I was a fucking millionaire and you were a fucking circus act?_

He'd rolled his eyes. Ain't no life where Merle was a millionaire

_But what if this is the first time we’ve ever seen each other. What if we ain't even brothers?_

_I seen you before Merle, I ain’t that lucky that I didn’t._

_But how would you know?_ Merle asked. _How would you know that brother?_

And round and round and round again. Merle eventually let up somewhat when something shiny and crystal grabbed his attention. But every now and then his obsession would flare up and he'd start again.

_What if this is the first time we're here in this room together? What if brother? What if Ma and Dad never existed?_

Daryl once made the mistake of pointing out that since they'd had this conversation at least twice a week after they'd seen that goddamn movie it kind of made this being their first meeting impossible. But that led to a philosophical conversation about the nature of the universe that neither of them was equipped to have.

Merle never fully let it go but he became quieter about it and he never ceased to find the idea fascinating.

_But how would you know brother? How would you know?_

And he feels like that now. Like someone's been fucking with time and space, changing the order of things, the logic behind it. Even the dead in this new world aren’t acting like they should. Maybe he's just been blind and that started long ago when a girl as pure as sunshine and just as lovely told him she loved him and made a place for him inside her body and her heart. Maybe he should never have trusted any of this.

She looks away, bends down to untangle Bo from his lead, pats his head and gets a lick through the face for her trouble. And then wedges herself in at his side again, slides her hands under his shirt, links them at his belly, thumbs rubbing gentle circles into his skin. And for a moment he forgets who he is and what he’s doing. 

“We could…” he starts weakly, covering her hands with one of his own. 

_We could go home_

_We could forget about all this_

_We could grow old together_

We _could_.

We _really_ could.

_We could wish ourselves away_

But they can’t and they both see why at the same time. They take a moment to pretend they don't. A moment to lie, her hands still pressed against his flesh, lips against his arm. And then that moment passes and they both freeze, no more cool circles on his belly, no wet mouth against him. It’s quiet too. No walkers, no birds, not even a breath of wind through the long grass. Even Bo is still. The world frozen in time, waiting to be realigned, changed, shifted. Maybe tomorrow the walkers will never have existed and he’ll be that fucking millionaire. Maybe she’ll be different too, someone he never met and never will. But no, no that’s too painful. More painful than looking at this map and seeing what they have to do. 

And even though he wants to look for another way, anything else, he knows they won’t find it. It’s so wrong that even he has to admit on some level it’s right. That’s there’s some macabre irony at play here. Some twisted poetry. He thinks it’s could even be called a Pyrrhic victory, if there’s any victory to be had here at all. And he's not sure who the victor would be anyway.

There’s one and only one road that they know for sure isn’t blocked. One road that will put them back onto the path they need to go.

Only one.

They have to go back.

They have to. 

It’s the only way.

“I’m so fucking sorry girl.”

~~~

She’s sitting on the side of the road, head in her hands, Bo’s by her side, but he’s not doing anything much other than lean against her.

She’s crying and he doesn’t know what to do. He could go to her but he senses she doesn’t want that, that she needs this moment to work through everything and when she needs him to comfort her, she’ll let him know.

There’s no use looking at the map anymore, somehow he knows this. Knows they could tear it up into little pieces and scatter it to the wind for all the help it would bring them now. There’s only one way they can go. They have to go back. 

Apparently you _do_ get to eventually. 

And not for the first time today he feels like what’s happening to them isn’t real, like they don’t exist in the same world right now. Junie Day, when she still spoke to him, would tell him about the stories she read. Fantasy novels about magic and strange creatures, stories where you said special words to cross into other worlds, where you collected a bunch of the right junk and only then would some bewitched portal would be revealed. And this - this day, this trip - feels like that. Like they're being forced, their footsteps counted and judged.

They have to go back to the prison.

God apparently has an even shittier sense of humour than he thought.

~~~

She eventually looks up at him and he goes to her, falling down at her side and pulling her into his lap, resting his chin on her head and rocking her gently.

They don’t talk for a while and he thinks they’re both letting the idea sink in through their skin and into their veins, holding it there for a while before moving it around and seeing how it fits. Not that this world seems to give a fuck if it doesn’t. 

"We've wasted so much time," she whispers and he nods. They have. They've wasted so much gas too. 

"So what now?" She says. "We go home? Try again tomorrow?"

_No Beth, that ain't home anymore._

He turns to her, touches her cheek, wipes her tears with his thumb. She’s beautiful and he loves her so much he’d crawl through fucking broken glass just to make her happy, lay his life down for her just because she asked. But there’s one thing he won’t do. He knows that now. He can’t. She can’t ask him to. 

"Beth," he says. "If I go back there, I ain't ever gonna leave again girl. I'm sorry. I just ain't."

Her breath hitches in her throat and she gulps a little, but she nods and he knows he doesn’t have to explain because she feels the same way. Exactly the same. He kisses her forehead, glances down. She suddenly she looks more girl than woman, rubbing her eyes. He's seen her like this before, holding a shoe and sobbing next to a pile of corpses, her whole body trembling. But this time he knows what to do, this time he doesn't leave her to herself. This time he pulls her closer, holds her tight to him and presses kisses into her hair. This time he tells her it'll be okay. But they have to go, it's the only way. Somehow he knows this instinctively. 

So she nods and holds back her sobs, eyes squeezed shut. They stay like that for a while, their little family, holding together on the side of the road, giving themselves time to consider the next part of their journey, giving themselves time to pretend that they don’t have to do it and they can just sit here forever.

"Come on girl," he says eventually, touching her lips with his thumb. "We're just going to drive past, that's all."

But something in his gut tells him this isn't true. He's almost sure of it. He wonders if it qualifies as a lie. If it’s the first in a string of many.

But she stands and they head back to the car. It’s not a question that he’ll drive. She doesn't sing, they leave the CD player off, even Bo is quiet in the back, lying down on the seat and sleeping. 

They turn back on themselves, watch the miles and miles of farmland they’ve already past stretch out in front of them, small towns turning to blurs. He drives fast like there’s something chasing them but he thinks he might have that the wrong way around. He'd hoped this trip could make a pretence of fun, hoped that they'd find some levity in it before things got ugly. Before they got weird. And for a moment it did, for a second. But now it seems that's been taken too. They've walked out into the real world and it's making them feel it, taking things from them they didn't know they had to give. First Bessie, now this. And he's not sure if he's just thinking crazy or if there really is something else going on here. He doesn't believe in god or the devil. He doesn't believe in fairies and dragons and Santa Claus either. But this day is too weird. Everything feels wrong. Even Beth. Even him and Beth.

And God he just wants to take her in his arms and make it right. But he's not sure that'll help. Not sure that'll make it any less wrong than it already is. And when they pass the five walkers, still standing exactly where they left them, and he watches how they wander off only after the car is past, he’s almost sure that this is only the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * that movie is Dark City


	11. Purgatory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so my muse left and my job became a nightmare, hence this long break between chapters. Also for some reason writing has become completely overwhelming to me, so I agonise far too much over chaptered works like this one. 
> 
> Also I just want to mention that this story has always flirted a little with reality, for example the safety of their house, the blocked roads, the three walkers dressed like soldiers. I've used some of these things as symbolic devices too. It is however never going to head into all out fantasy, but it will continue to push the boundaries in small ways.
> 
> Anyway, here it is and I am sorry for the wait and I do appreciate it if you are still with me.

“You never talk about her.”It’s not an accusation. Not yet at least. It’s just a statement. Mild even. Bemused in a way that’s not all that bemusing. 

He lies on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other around Maggie’s shoulders where she rests her head on his chest.

She's been sick again and she smells sour, hair wet and sticky. It’s not lack of hygiene. They have showers, running water even. Flush toilets which are a luxury none of them thought they’d ever see again. They’re in a good way. Except she’s not. 

She’s been sick. So very sick and the stench of her vomit lingers in the air. Bob says there’s nothing to be done. Nothing they can do at least, what with limited medical facilities. Keep an eye on it. Stay hydrated.  Try and get some vitamins. He even gave it a name. _Hyperemesis gravidarum_. Sounds terrifying, but in their current situation it’ll just have to be terrifying. Not much to do either way.

Maggie says her grandma on her dad’s side used to have it. Says she doesn't remember if it affected her mom, she doesn't remember much about her at all. Not that all that matters. She has it. They're in the middle of the fucking apocalypse and now they have something extra to worry over. 

Things could be worse though. They could be on the road. They could still be in that fucking boxcar. But they're not. They're not and they need to deal with that too.

He doesn't know why but he tries again. Somehow it’s important. Somehow he needs her to acknowledge what she’s lost, who she’s lost. “Maggie?”

She shifts against him and he thinks maybe she didn’t hear. Part of him hopes that she didn’t in fact because god, _oh god_ , she’s sick and sore and why the hell did he think bringing up her dead family is a good idea anyway?

But she heard. Because she has to.

“Don't,” she whispers. “Please don't.”

He sighs.

“It's not healthy Maggie,” he says gently, hand running through her sweaty hair. “Your dad. Beth. You can't pretend it didn't happen.”

But she can. Apparently she can and she’s good at it. And a small part of him wonders what will happen when it’s his turn. If she’ll shed a tear or two or if she’ll shrug and just move on. Just another day, just another death. 

It not true though. She feels it, he knows she does. Can’t conceive of a world where she doesn’t. Where this woman he loves so fucking much and he’d die defending has closed herself off so totally that she’s nothing but a hideous facsimile of the girl who once offered him a quickie in a convenience store and changed his whole life in the process. 

He loves her. She loves him. It’s simple. She loved her sister. She loved her father. That’s simple too. And she’s a good person. That’s probably the simplest of it all. But she’s also a hard person and that’s where things get complicated. So very complicated.

She sighs. “I asked you to stop.”

She doesn’t sound angry. Just defeated. Resigned. Exhausted.

He nods. “Okay.”

“I can't talk about this now.”

“Okay,” he leans forward, kisses her brow. “I’m sorry.”

And he really is.

***

He never actually thought they would just drive past the place they once called home. He realises it as he parks the car awkwardly between a ruined guard tower and a low wall outside F Block. It was never going to be that simple. The universe wouldn't allow it.

Sure, it was the _plan_ , but the plan is making new things up as they go along, throwing them curveballs and forcing the puzzle pieces not to fit. He feels like they're on a Möbius strip, turning back on themselves only to go forward. 

And then finding that they're back where they started. Which they kind of are.

The prison. The beginning and the end of it all.

He doesn't want to be here. Standing on the asphalt, Beth to his left, watching as the weakening sunlight casts a shadow across them and turns her dappled and grey. As much as he appreciates that there's a twisted poetry to this, something cyclical and fitting, he still doesn't want to bear witness to it. 

Neither does she. He knows it. No need to ask.

He didn’t want to. But they had to anyway.

When they turned onto the road that would take them past the prison it was like popping through a membrane, jumping into another world. And that part of him that buys into Merle’s “what ifs”, that part that does ask cosmic questions and wish there were simple answers, believes they did. Their little house, their garden, their haven, it all seems so far away. The other side of a dream they never had in the first place. That was beautiful. This. This is ugly.

The road was in bad shape. Potholed and littered. Broken. And the walkers. God the fucking walkers, multiplying exponentially the further they went, loose groups gave way to tighter clutches. Four or five stragglers turned into ten or twenty roamers and then 30, 40, 60 and then - as they silently and reproachfully drove past the ruined prison - too many to count. Just bodies. Rotten, decayed, writhing. Things that _should_ be dead. Things that fucking went against every law of the universe just by being here. But then again the universe hadn’t been playing ball for a while.

And so it _had_ to happen. It _had_ to. Maybe they would have stood a chance if they could get onto one of the arterial roads that led through woods. Maybe if they could have just kept going a little longer. Maybe if they had started out a bit earlier. Maybe it would have been okay. 

Maybe that was one too many maybes.

And maybe it was never going to be okay. 

He saw it as they rounded a sharp bend. He might have been surprised but something told him that he always knew it was going to be there. It kind of had to be.  An army of the dead. An army so vast and so poisonous it would devour anything in its way. Hundreds upon hundreds of them, filthy and bloodied, clothes in tatters and skin hanging in loops off their bones. And moving. Moving towards them. Towards him. To Beth and Bo. His family. Trying to take it all away all over again. 

No.

Turn around. Backtrack along that fucking Möbius strip. Find shelter. Let them pass. Keep Beth safe. Keep Bo safe. Nothing else matters.

And he’d already seen that F Block was fine, still standing, the fence still up if not the guard tower, the dirt road to the gate gleaming like a yellow snake in the muggy air. And he knew that was their only option. That there was no rhyme and no reason to not spend the night, to try again in the morning. They knew this place. Knew its secrets, its history. It served them well once… before everything fell apart. Before…

_(the Governor rolled right up to our gates)_

He pushed that thought away. Muttered a few curses and another apology to Beth under his breath and headed, hell for leather, towards the place they once called home. 

***

Beth doesn't say anything as he bolts the gate. She lets Bo out to pee and sniff at the sparse scrubby grass that's trying so hard and so unsuccessfully to grow through the Tarmac, stares at the grounds, the rapidly darkening sky. The shadows.

He stands for a while, grasping the steel bars of the fence, looking out towards the road. Watching as the herd shuffles along, some plodding, some crawling. There must be thousands of them. Men, women, kids - the kids are always the worst - moving together like the Styx, foul and grey and right into hell. 

He closes his eyes, wills it not to matter. 

They made it. They’re here. They’re safe. If any place can really be safe.

And the truth is he's pretty sure the prison isn't. Maybe for a night. Maybe from walkers and raiders, from Governors and claimers. But not from the voices in their heads, the twist in their guts. The memories.

_(Maybe I coulda done somethin’)_

_(I gave up. That's on me.)_

And then he feels her arms around him, sliding across his belly, her head pressed between his shoulder blades, her heart hammering against his back. And he wonders if comforting him this way comforts her too. If this is the little world she's made for them where they can both be safe.

He leans into it, even though this is wrong, even though this is his job and he's the one who should be holding her. After all, she lost more here than he did but then again he guesses this isn't a competition.

She starts to sob - he knew it was coming - choked sounds that bubble up from her gut and drown in his shirt. And he lets her. Wraps his hands around hers and bows his head and listens to her tears.

And then eventually, after what could be seconds or days, "Come on girl. Come on."

It's not admonishment. Could never be that. Just a gentle reminder that they're here. They're alive. Even if they're the only ones. It counts. It matters.

Her arms loosen and he turns. She's a mess. All bloodshot eyes and blotchy skin. Nothing like the girl in that pretty pink shirt, opals hanging off her arm, from this morning. He's seen her like this before. Once. He remembers now. He remembers how he left her crying in a heap of bodies, holding a shoe. He remembers how he walked away. 

_You could have been so much better. You still can be._

So he cups the back of her head, her hair clean and soft, and presses her to his chest, rests his cheek against her temple.

He doesn't tell her it's okay. He doesn't lie. You don't lie to Beth Greene. But he tells her they'll leave at first light, that she's strong. She's so strong. He's never met anyone as strong as her. And it's just one night. They've had worse. They've lived worse. Nights in trunks and cold barns. Nights pressed together while it seems all the walkers in the world groan for their blood. He tells her they'll get through this together. Like they always do. But most of all he lets her cry. Deep shuddering sobs that rattle her bones and then his. And it's okay. He doesn't feel any need to get her to stop, to hasten this. He whispers to her. Holds his lips close to her ear, breathes her in and plants clumsy kisses against the skin of her neck. 

They can stay like this. They can stay like this for the rest of their lives.

But they won’t. She won’t. And eventually he feels her shift against him, she gulps and scrubs at her eyes, leans up and kisses the corner of his mouth.

She's ready. She has to be.

He glances out across the yard to the road. The strange humidity has given way to dark clouds and he can smell rain in the air. In the distance thunder rolls.

He takes her hand, threads their fingers together and leads her into F Block.

***

He never much cared about the setup of the prison pre-the world going to shit. Rick explained it to him once, maybe twice.

Where they stayed before was gen-pop, where they tried to leave Axel and Tiny was death row which seems morbidly ironic now. 

F-Block, as far as he remembers, was for those awaiting trial who didn't get or couldn't make bail. Technically not criminals yet but the odds didn’t look good.

He's not sure. He still doesn't much care. 

It _is_ how he remembered though. Slightly less depressing than the rest of the blocks, situated closer to the gym. But still dusty, dark, eerie. It reminds him of a tomb and in many ways it is. They never lived here. No real need because it was a little further from the admin block than they liked to move and they simply never expanded that far. Maybe if things had been different, if they'd been stronger, if the Governor hadn't destroyed everything they'd built, maybe there'd be people here now. Living their lives.

And maybe that brief and tender embrace in Beth's cell would have been the only time he ever touched her. 

He shakes the thought away. He can't choose, he doesn't have to. The world doesn't work in hypotheticals. They're here now. That's important.

That _matters_.

They pull mattresses out of the cells, set them out upstairs near the window so they can stare at the rain. That part of him that remembers Merle's ridiculous “what if” movie wonders if the downpour will wash the world clean, take away the filth and the stench, but he doesn't think so. The world doesn't work in neat little cycles. It doesn't tie everything in a nice little bow and hand it to you with a handwritten note.

And yet here they are. 

Bo sits near their feet, sighing and Beth pours some water into a bowl for him, opens one of their precious cans of dog food, which makes Bo dance and yelp but makes the place smell like a musty, meaty feed store. 

He goes through their packs, finds some cold beans and a granola bar and offers it to her but she shakes her head. She doesn't feel like eating.

Okay. That's okay. They're both processing. Taking it in. Dealing with it.

Sort of.

He can't believe that their whole lives from before are nothing but a short walk away - they both had stubbornly refused to even look in the direction of C - but he wonders now. Wonders if Beth's cell is still the same. The red poncho on the wall, the godawful garden gnomes she liked so much. Her message board, the blue curtain covered in stars. Is it all still there? Preserved in time? Maybe a thick layer of dust it's only concession to the fact that the world changed. And then changed again.

He doesn't think much on his own cell. There's not much there worth thinking about. Some old clothes and he has new ones now. No mementos. Maybe because there was nothing worth having. Until now.

“Feels weird,” she whispers not taking her eyes off the rain. “It feels so weird.”

He doesn't say anything. Rather he slides his arm around her, draws her in. Let's her hair tickle his nose.

“It's like it's not real but it is,” she says against his chest. “Like everything is only a short walk away but it's also on the other side of the world.”

She reads minds Beth Greene does. Always has.

_(You don't get to treat me like crap just because you're afraid)_

“I hate that we’re back here. It feels like we shoulda just left it.”

He nods. He gets it. He wishes he didn't but he does. It's wrong that they're here, wrong on a fundamental level. Like they're ransacking a tomb. Disturbing the dead.

Which they are. In more ways than one.

He doesn't say anything. He just shrugs. She gets it.

She sighs and releases him, lies back on the mattress, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

And for the first time he doesn't have the slightest clue what to do with her. She's defeated somehow. Maudlin. Giving herself over to a kind of melancholy that he's never associated with her. Even before, even when she took that broken mirror and sliced her veins open, let her life flow out, it was done with a certain determination, a goal, an attempt to take control and go on her own terms. 

And this is nothing like that. 

He thinks if he asked her to leave, to go home, to find their silly house with it's blue flowerpot and the life they made together that she'd do it. She'd up and leave with him, tame as a lamb.

But he knows that's not how this goes. 

“Do you think this is worth it?” She asks. Hands folded across her belly, opals at her wrist twinkling in the dying light. “Do you think we’ll find Maggie?”

He grunts. He doesn't have an answer for her. Maggie was alive when she made the sign. That's all he knows.

_(Wouldn't kill you to have a little faith)_

Yeah but maybe it would. 

He lies down next to her, gathers her to his chest and buries his face in her neck where she smells of sage. She fits. They fit. Always have. And she feels small and fragile against him. Like he could envelop her. Like he already has and she's become part of his skin and bones. Part of his blood.

She _is_ blood. Always has been.

“We have each other right?” She whispers. And she sounds uncertain.

So he kisses her cheek, nuzzles against her jaw, chapped lips ghosting over soft skin. Lingering and then touching again. He still wants her. As much as he did earlier. As much as he did while they lay together in that sun drenched grass before the dead came to take it all away.

“Daryl?” She asks, voice low.

“You ain't getting rid of me that easily Greene,” he whispers. And it's true. He’ll follow her no matter where she goes. To hell and back. He thinks maybe he already is.

She laughs but the sound is hollow and she threads her fingers through his, little hands so delicate, his thumbs closing around her wrists and her scar a fiery brand against him.

“I'll keep you,” she says. “Till you're old and grey.”

He huffs out a laugh, just as hollow as hers. “Already old and grey girl,” 

She sighs. “Yeah, me too.”

Thunder rolls and the rain beats down.

***

When he wakes up it's dark and she's gone, a cold dent in the mattress where she once lay. And it seems so final he wonders if she was ever really there at all. Bo's asleep at his feet and doesn't stir as he stands nor as he calls her name into the darkness. 

There’s no response, he's not surprised. He knows where she is, even though he shouldn't.

He walks to the window, stares out into the night. The rain has stopped momentarily and the moon is full bathing everything in a white light, throwing the grounds, the trees, the walkers into sharp relief. But inside it's dark. Darker than it should be. Darker than he's ever seen it. 

He walks down the stairs, footsteps oddly muffled against the linoleum. It's so quiet, so very,  very quiet and his eyes aren't adjusting to the light, moving only by feel. A small leap of faith if nothing else. There are no walkers here, there is nothing. 

Only spirits.

Only him. Only her. And maybe right now they’re spirits too.

He knows the way, whether by memory or simply instinct he doesn’t doubt himself. And maybe that’s because he doesn’t doubt her. She’s a creature of habit. Just like him. But also not.

He reaches the door, pushes it outwards as bright moonlight and cold crisp air slams into him, the smell of rain and below that the smell of death. He ignores it.

He tries. 

Bo’s woken up now and falls in behind him, sticking close. Quiet. No puppy growls. No snuffling. 

They walk through the scrubby grass and he lets his fingers touch the wet blades. The fence is up here. Up and strong but he knows it isn't where he's going. He was after all the last to leave. He was here until the bitter end.

_Could the last one here please turn out the lights?_

A bad joke. Lame. Stupid. He saw it in a movie once. Not the same one Merle couldn't shut up about. Another one. Another one full of “what ifs”. Another one where the world died and people kept on living. Until they didn’t.

He glances towards the road where the herd still shuffles on mindlessly, and then he turns, heads deeper into the grounds, until it feels like the night and the cold and the prison are all trying to swallow him up at once. All vying for a piece of him, all waiting to consume him. Take him inside and never let him leave. 

He knows where he is going, because he knows where she went and when he gets to that gate to C Block he's surprised by how comfortingly familiar this all is. It’s sturdy, like all the gates and doors here. Metal bars and reinforced wood, barbed wire across the top and tattered electric fencing above that. Designed to keep people in and then later to keep others out. For all the good it did.

_(The Governor rolled right up to our gates)_

There are walkers on the other side, not doing much of anything. They're wet, dirty, dripping from the earlier showers. Shuffling about slightly confused which is no surprise because rain can disorientate them, especially in enclosed spaces. He's not sure how long it will be until they regain whatever faculties they have, but he stays silent as he unbolts the gate and slips through, knife gripped tightly in his fist as he slinks across the courtyard, Bo a shadow at his feet.

He dispatches two walkers swiftly with a knife to the head. No noise, barely even a groan as they crumple on the tar. The others don’t notice, still dazed by the wet, still swaying in the wind, the sodden thwack of their rags echoing across the yard. He’s grateful but somehow not really worried. He’s not sure if it is something in the air or just his general mood, but it doesn’t feel like there is real danger here. It doesn’t feel like they are meant to die now.

_(We’re not gonna die)_

And he knows that’s stupid and he knows that’s reckless and he knows that if anyone was telling him this right now at this very moment he’d tell them they were a fucking idiot and that they fucking deserved to become walker chow with an attitude like that. But somehow he can’t bring himself to meet his own exacting standards right now. Maybe it’s the weirdness of the last few hours, that sharp rush of freedom and fear as they cut ties with everything they had. Everything they’d built over the last few months. Maybe it’s that this _still_ doesn’t feel real and it still seems like some great quest that he’s collecting items for, that he needs to move through before he actually finds any real challenges at the end of the line. After all, the hero doesn't get killed by a mindless minion. The hero makes it right to the end.

As he nears the stairs which lead into C Block, he notes a few more bodies on the ground, three of them. It must have been Beth. Beth on her way back here. Beth on her search for the past. 

They _are_ in a fucking horror movie.

He looks around. The moon is ridiculously bright and he can see the rubble from the guard tower, the broken wall by the garden and the overturned pots where Rick once had delusions of building a life. Sustaining them.

He thinks of that blue flowerpot and he wonders if he had them too.

There's a car seat in the rubble, a few broken bags, obviously dropped by those trying to get on the bus. The sick, the weak. The dying.

She was meant to drive the bus. 

He remembers that now. God knows to where but he remembers that was the plan. You know, if things went South. Which they fucking did. 

And he finds himself irrevocably grateful that she didn't get behind that wheel. That she stayed. That she didn't leave him to die out there alone. He wonders what happened to everyone else and finds he doesn’t like the images his brain conjures up. Buses crashing and blood strewn across the road. Broken bodies savaged by the dead. 

_A shoe lying in a pile of corpses._

He pushes the door to C Block open. It creaks loudly, metal scraping across the floor, hinges squealing as he shoves his way inside, Bo silent at his heels. And then nothing. Dust and shadows. Quiet. So different from how it was the first time they did this, when they fought their way in, when Hershel lost his leg like he lost his farm, like he lost his wife, his stepson. It's not a mess, no belongings strewn on the floor. Patrick’s table of Lego is still where it was, toy cars, a stuffed bunny that belonged to Judith, a thick layer of dust the only indication that time has passed at all. Maybe no one was in here to run out when everything fell apart. C Block was off limits after the flu, the sick were on death row. 

He wonders if any of them ever left. 

He steps out into the passage where the shadows are deeper, no light from the moon, no speckled dustmotes dancing in the cold spring air. He passes the cells slowly, fingers trailing against the cold metal bars, the moldy fabric of the sheets people pulled over the exits. There were lives here once. So many lives. If he walked into any one of these cells right now he’d find signs of it. Clothes, trinkets, weapons, small havens people carved for themselves inside these ugly concrete walls, a place they could hide from the death outside. He won’t intrude though, rather leave them to their melancholy, leave them there as monuments, shrines to what they lost. Let them honour the fallen with peace, let them honour the dead and leave them to their solitude. There is no use trying to make life here.  


So he walks. He knows where he is going, knows he’s searching for the one spot of light in this dead place. This place filled with nothing but emptiness. It’s not far, and yet the journey seems long, space and time stretching out before him, adjusting itself, throwing the world and everything he knew about it into stark shadow, hiding its face from him. Maybe it’s scared. But when he remembers Judith’s bunny he knows that more likely it’s shamed. 

But he doesn’t want to think about that. Instead he thinks of her. About her golden hair and luminous skin, her blue eyes and her pink lips. The way she smells of rosemary and sage and earth, and how she tastes of sunshine and fresh air. 

And how one day he knows he will lose it all.

_Wouldn't it be good if we could wish ourselves away?_

She’s where he thought she would be, sitting on a bed that’s no longer hers, ivory skin and hair turned silver spilling over her shoulders, and hands clasped in front of her. For a moment he thinks she’s praying. 

He doesn’t know what she could possibly be praying for.

But he watches her, lingers in the doorway like he once did all those thousands of years ago and waits for her to notice him, waits for this girl of light to welcome his shadow, his darkness. And when she looks up at him, tear-stained cheeks and wide, blue eyes, there’s a moment it seems she almost doesn’t recognise him. 

_Almost_.

She stands. He goes to her. And then his mouth is on hers and his hands are in her hair. And he loves her so goddamned much that all he wants to do is say it. Scream it into her mouth, take her breath with it. But he doesn't. They don't speak. As much as he wants to, as much as he wants to whisper into her ear, tell her everything and all the things and how much he fucking needs her to keep himself going, he can't. It's wrong somehow, making noise in this place. This place of the dead that should have been left to the shadows. Instead, he touches her. Runs his fingers down the goosebumps of her arms, to her hands and then back again across her stomach and over her breasts. She shivers and it goes right through him as he wraps an arm around her neck and presses his mouth on hers. 

She's everything. Every little thing. And he knows it's fucked up and he knows it's unhealthy but he also knows he'd die without her.

And somehow that's okay. In his messed up head that's how it _should_ be.

And then he's down on his knees, fumbling at her jeans, getting them halfway down her thighs and burying his head between her legs. Licking and sucking and _feeding_ off her. Tasting her as her juices run down his chin, roll across his tongue.

She's hot and wet and she tastes of sunshine and rose petals. Sweet and subtle and he revels in it, tongue scraping along her flesh, fingers holding her open.

No time for lingering. No time to let it build into that delicious ache, that burn that kept going for months before their touches and their kisses, and the way his cock rested hard against her every night. And then she's pulling him up, framing his face with her hands, running her fingers over his cheeks, his lips, down across the scruff of his beard to his throat.

And she's pushing herself against him, hard and rough like she wants to climb inside him like he wants to with her. Hide in his heart and stay safe forever.

He's not sure his heart is a safe place though.

But he’ll try. He’ll try and make it one for her.

It’s like a dam breaking as he opens his arms, as he engulfs her and swallows her and suddenly it's not slow any more.

And he remembers their first time, how this happened before, how it was so similar and yet incomparable. This isn’t about easing anyone into anything. This isn’t about consummating some simmering desire. This is hard and fast and necessary in a way that that first night simple wasn’t. She says his name, quiet, low, her voice husky and nothing like hers. 

And she’s grabbing at him, his shirt, his vest, the button of his pilfered fancy ass jeans. He doesn’t try to resist, it’s pointless anyway. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want this to be slow and sweet and neither does she. She’s biting at him, sharp teeth scraping across his lips and down to the hollow of throat, where she buries her face in him and then he’s fisting a hand into her hair,  backing her into the cold wall of her cell, knocking trinkets and books to the floor where they  explode in a cloud of dust, his mouth frantic on hers, hands tearing at her clothes.

He says her name, choked and heavy and then groans as his fingers slide downwards, over her belly and hip and down the crease of her thigh to press against her hot, damp centre.

It’s then that the world contracts, hard and fast. The dustmotes dance and shimmer and form miniature tornadoes where they spin and spin and spin just out of sight. He stumbles against something, a crash of one of those godawful porcelain garden gnomes she liked so much bursting on the floor. And it’s like the whole universe is folding in on itself, over and over again, dark shadows and jagged stones and bloodied broken glass, the smell of decay collecting together under the sound of his breath, waiting to be expelled outwards again. It builds and builds inside him. Coils tighter with every small breath she takes, every movement of her slick cunt against him.

They don't speak after that. Only sighs and moans. Only the sound of flesh against flesh, the wet noises of his mouth on hers and his fingers inside her.

Somehow their clothes are gone. He's not sure how. Maybe in some other realm there was some unbuttoning, a gentle slide of cotton off pale shoulders, the grate of a zipper as jeans fell to the floor.

But not here. Not in this half light, this place balancing on the boundaries of life and death.

_Oh my god girl._

And then she's reaching for him, hands grabbing at his cock, mouth hot and wet against his. Desperate. 

_Now Daryl, now._

She doesn't have to say it. The message in and of itself is loud and clear and so he lifts her, pins her to the wall as she wraps her legs around his waist and he slides into her. She moans as he does, drawing him close, burying her head against his shoulder, scrape of her teeth against his skin. A second of bliss. Perfection.

And in that second he sees everything. Everything.

_His old man beating away at his Ma. Her blue eyes filled with tears, running over purpled skin. Opals sparkling in her wrist. Lost. The woods. Hungry. Merle snorting a mountain of cocaine. A cartoon dog. A punch to the gut. Hunting. The quarry. Andrea. The woman who lost her husband, the son who lost his father. A axe through Ed’s head. Jimmy, his “bones like glass”. Carol. Jackie. That CDC asshole. Running for their lives. The farm. Hershel and his shotgun. Sophia walking out of the barn. Beth putting stones on a grave. Randall. Beating him. The red haze behind his eyes when he did. Shane. Lori’s belly swelling. The prison. Rick. Andrea coming back to them. Losing her again. Martinez and his menthol cigarettes. Hershel lying dead in a field of corpses. Rick bloodied and beaten. Beth in front of the fire. Hating her, but loving her all the same. A bloodied cardigan. A bottle of moonshine. A white dog. A home. Oh. A white cross. Len. Joe. Beth in his vest. Her bra.  The blue flowerpot. Bo. Making love in front of the fire. Leaving. Back at the prison. Finding Maggie. Finding Glenn. Watching Beth slip away. Finding others. Junie Day and her red hair. Bessie. Oh my god Bessie. Beth's eyes full of tears. A baby in her arms._

He reels backwards and the vision bursts all over the world. And then she's coming, hard and thick against him, wetness spilling between them, nails scraping down his back, teeth on the skin of his neck.

He thinks she draws blood. Thinks that must be what does it, because all of a sudden he's shattering too, hard as nails against her soft skin, gasping ragged breaths into her hair, stars like shards of stained glass dancing in front of his eyes. He heaves against her, burying his face in her shoulder, wondering briefly if she's comfortable pressed so hard against the wall.

And then somehow, even though he still has her suspended in his hands, she's guiding them to her bed and he's collapsing in the dusty sheets, her weight soft and comforting against him. A tangle of limbs he has no desire to untie. 

She’s kissing him, he can feel her mouth moving over the skin of his chest, his shoulders, she might even be whispering softly now but he’s not sure.

He's exhausted. 

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t dream.

***

When he comes to, he’s lying on his back in her bed, Bo at his feet and Beth draped over him, head on his chest. His head is pounding and his mouth dry and fuzzy and for a moment he has no idea how they got here, no idea of anything after he felt blood on his chest and he cracked in her arms.

There’s a part of him that wonders if it happened at all. The “what if” part. Merle’s part. The part that feels like he’s been living in a dark dream since the moment they left that little house - number seven with the blue flowerpot - the part that is struggling to make sense of it all. But of course it happened. It must have. Because here they are and how the fuck else would they have ended up naked and tangled in each other's arms in her cell.

It comes back to him now in fragments. Fucking her against the wall. Sobbing into her hair. His tears and hers and only the ghosts to listen. Shuffling about for their clothes, picking up her small workplace sign. Still set at zero. More crying.

But this is going to be okay. It will.

_“Will it brother? Will it really?”_

Merle. Oh god, Merle. Again. He’s not even shocked. Truly. He knew the quiet was too good to last.

_“Miss me?”_

_No you stupid piece of shit. No I didn’t miss your sorry ass at all. And what the fuck are you doing here anyway? Why the fuck are you back? You've been gone, you've been gone for so fucking long and it's been so good not to have you around. So good to have a clear head. So good not to have that cacophony of voices banging around in my brain._

But he knows. Knows why Merle is back. And why soon his Ma will follow and then maybe if he’s really fucking lucky, his old man too. It’s easy really. Obvious even. Because the protection of their little house where they led their little lives is gone. Because they went through that portal and found their freedom. If he can even call it that.

And a nasty part of him laughs at the fact that he's thinking about freedom in a jail cell.

He shifts and Beth stirs against him. It's dawn outside. Early still. But no longer dark. He sits up, kisses her brow, runs a thumb along her cheek and then extricates himself and heads across the passage to the window. The day is dismal, grey and mean and sucked dry of any joy it might once have had. Like he thought it hadn’t been washed clean. It had just turned to mud. 

But on the other hand, the herd is gone. No walkers except for the few milling outside. If all the roads are like this they can make good time. They could be at Terminus by nightfall. Twelve hours on the road doesn't seem so bad.

Except when it does.

He feels her more than hears her behind him. And then her little hand is creeping into his.

“This was a mistake,” she says. And he's not sure if she means staying here or if she means this whole trip in general. And he still knows that all she has to do is say the word and they can turn around and go back. He’ll give up. He knows he will. He’ll let the rest go and wish them well. Godspeed. 

But he knows she won't. It's her sister. Her sister. And she hasn't forgotten that, even if Maggie has.

He turns, slides an arm around her shoulders, kisses her hair.

“It's so sad here,” she whispers. “So dead.”

He nods.

“And my dad…”

Her voice cracks and he pulls her against him. Holding her. Rocking her gently. 

It's not like she hasn't cried over him before. It's not like they both haven't. It's not even like they haven't stood like this and cried together. But these wounds run deep. He still feels the sting when he thinks about his Ma. Merle. Even sometimes his old man and fuck, that in itself kills him. That he can feel that when he probably shouldn't. But maybe he doesn't need to worry about shoulds and shouldn'ts because who made the rules anyway?

“We should leave,” she says.

_(We should burn it down.)_

But no, no they shouldn't. Because burning it down was an act of defiance and they don't need defiance here. They need to lock it up and throw away the key. Give the memories a place to live, the ghosts a place to rest.

So they do.

They don’t linger. They get their clothes, gather their packs. And then she locks the door to her cell behind her, key clasped tightly in her fist.

“Don't you want anything?” He asks.

“Like what?”

He shrugs, looks at her pretty trinkets, the ones they didn't bust last night, the pictures on the walls. The ladybugs and the stick figures.

She shakes her head, reaches into her pocket and pulls out that green diary, runs her fingers over the yellowed pages. Her hopes, her dreams. And then tosses that and the key into the cell too, draws the curtain and turns to him.

_An abandoned shoe._

_A girl crying at a crossroads._

_A man who has no idea how to comfort her._

_He could have been better._

_He could have_ tried _._

But he's trying now and he pulls her to him again.

“We should go,” she whispers.

He nods. Leave the ghosts to each other. Leave death in this grave. 

She picks up Judith’s bunny on the way to the door. Pink body now grey with dust. One eye missing. Hershel used to call it Philip and wasn't that fucking hilarious?

He wonders if she remembers but of course she does.

She puts the toy down.

They close the door behind them and they don't look back.

***

On the road again.

Terminus. The signs come faster and faster now. More offers of sanctuary, more declarations of safety for all. It's beginning to look like a big fucking joke, they both know it.

More messages written in blood. Messages for Glenn.

_Glenn, go to Terminus._

_Glenn follow the signs to Terminus._

_Glenn we are heading to Terminus._

_Maggie, Sasha and Bob._

_Maggie, Sasha and Bob._

_Maggie, Sasha and Bob._

_Glenn, Glenn, Glenn._

It bothers her, he can see it does but she doesn't say anything. She accused him once, in their drunken moonshine rage, of not getting why she survived, of not getting _how_. How she wasn’t like _him_ or _them_ but somehow she was still there. And he deserved it. He knows he did. He was being a massive asshole and the fact was that he _didn’t_ get it. Didn’t understand how this fragile human being that looked more like a Disney cartoon than a real-life person had somehow got this far unscathed. And she set him straight. Told him.

He thinks for her it was easier to say it to him. To confront him with his own ignorance, to tell him off. After all, who was he really to her then? How much did his opinion really matter and how much did confronting him about it hurt her? He’s going to guess not that much. Of course she didn’t want him to have misconceptions, of course she didn’t want him to treat her like crap, but the fact was knowing what he thought of her at the time maybe wasn’t the biggest kick to the gut. Maybe it wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to her. But this? Seeing that Maggie hadn’t even bothered to consider for a second that she could be alive, that maybe she wasn’t lying dead in the prison yard somewhere or worse, that maybe she might also need signs to follow. That’s worse. Far worse. And he knows she feels it. Knows it’s killing her deep inside. 

“Don’t you want to sing somethin’?’”

_(Go on and play some more.)_

She shrugs. “What you wanna hear?”

He ducks his head. “Anythin’.”

And it’s true, anything will do.

She gives him a tiny smile and then she sings. The song is old and he knows it but it's also sweet and sad. And her voice is clear and bright despite the gloomy overtones of the song.

_Your face has fallen sad now_  
For you know the time is nigh  
When I must remove your wings  
And you, you must try to fly  
  
Come sail your ships around me  
And burn your bridges down  
We make a little history, baby  
Every time you come around 

He stops the car. Pulls to a halt on the side of the road, tyres screeching and Bo tumbling off the back seat. For a moment he says nothing, just rests his forearms on the steering wheel, chewing desperately at the inside of his cheek, trying to find anything to focus. The road ahead is clear, the weather is still the colour of mud. But they’ll make it to Terminus by nightfall. One way or the other they’ll know.

And he’s not sure he wants to. Not sure she does either.

He’s voice is soft when he talks, soft and low and he doesn’t look at her. “You say the word Beth. Say it and we turn this show around. We go back.” 

It’s primal and he means it. Nothing else matters because in his bones he knows that when you take everything away this is what they need. What they want. 

She’s silent for a while and eventually he turns his head towards her, watching her through the fall of his hair. She’s beautiful and she’s biting her lip and there's a wild moment she looks like she'll agree. That they’ll turn this car around and forget about this. Accept that one way or another the others are lost to them. They did that once. They did it at the funeral home before he lost her. Before the dog. Before she said “oh”. They can do it again. They _can_. Even though he knows they can't. 

“I have to see Daryl,” she whispers. “I have to know if she's alive.”

She stops, covers his hands with hers, threads their fingers together.

“You do too,” she says.

She's right. Of course she is. Even though she’s also wrong. Even though all he wants in the whole fucking world is to go home and fall into their bed with her, hold her and kiss her and listen to the silence outside, she's still right.

If there's a chance. Even the smallest glimmer of hope that they can regroup, that they can find some of the others, it's worth it. He allows himself a moment to imagine them making their way back, to them all living in little white Lego houses. Another community slowly expanding. A better outcome than the last.

_(Maybe I coulda done something)_

“Okay girl,” he pulls her hand to his mouth, kisses her fingers and then leans their foreheads together, breathing in the heady scent of her, still thick with the musk and sweat from the previous night. “Okay. But we are in this together. You ain't alone.”

She nods and smiles.

“I know,” she says.

And he knows it too. But he can't shake the notion that it feels like a lie.

***

She's a little brighter after that though. He thinks it has something to do with the proximity of the prison, how they've left it behind. She sings and her voice is beautiful, melancholy, but not lost. A little bit of her fire is back and he's so fucking grateful for that. 

There are still walkers. Another herd - although not as numerous as the first - forces them onto a side road, but it's not hard to loop back behind the dead and continue. They're not blocked. This is the right way, the way they were always meant to go. 

It's dusk when they stop the car at the side of the road and get out, the elusive train track they've been chasing cutting across the road in front of them and then into the woodland on either side. There's a sign to the right saying Terminus is a mile and a half away. No scrawl from Maggie. He's not sure if that's a good or not, not sure he even knows one from the other anymore. He does know however that he's not just going to walk up and knock on their front door. Offer himself and Beth up like meat. 

No, they’ll walk from here.

He takes the bow and they pick their way through the trees and short grass, using the track as a guide. He thinks him and Merle might have actually ridden this route once, stowed away on a goods train to get to God knows where so Merle could land a few bags of coke. He doesn't remember if he did. Doesn't remember if Merle came back high or low but it doesn't matter now. Nothing much does except what he has next to him.

It doesn't take long. It’s maybe twenty minutes of slow walking and they see lights winking in the distance, voices, the smell of something meaty and delicious, voices even. It's almost full dark now and crickets are singing into the night sky, Bo snuffling in the undergrowth.

Hand on her arm, they edge closer until they can make out a cluster of building in amongst some scattered box cars. 

“Do you think they're here?” She says softly.

“Somebody’s here,” he answers. “I just dunno how friendly they are.”

He can see now that the area is fenced in. Chicken wire like at the prison but maybe sturdier. Still might not be enough to stand up to a herd. Might be they also needed to feed piggies to the walkers every now and then.

 _This little piggy went to market..._ , Merle says in the back of his head and then crows like he's hilarious. 

“Look,” Beth touches his arm, points to the fence where he can see the shadow of someone patrolling.

It's a man. Sturdy. Broad. Built like a brick shithouse Merle would have said. He's walking with a kind of economy and precision that he could have only got in one place and it makes Daryl wonder if this was some kind of military compound. Some kind of last line of defence against the virus. He's seen enough horror movies to know that army outposts and crises of this magnitude never end well. But maybe this is different. 

Maybe with her everything's different. 

He takes a step onto the track. It leads right up to the gates, now closed and padlocked. Wooden spikes to each side, almost exactly like the prison. Almost like it's the same handiwork. Almost like the same people put together. Almost like those people are here.

The man halts in his patrol, turns slowly in his direction, rifle now off his back and clasped loosely in big meaty hands. He has red hair and a big bushy mustache which covers a good portion of his face. 

“He looks like a walrus,” Beth whispers close to him and it's so absurd and so incredibly random that he finds it hard not to laugh, shoving a hand over his mouth to muffle any sound. 

She smiling too. First real smile he's seen from her in a long time and part of him says it's worth the risk of being overheard out here. He can kill people any time after all.

And then suddenly she clutches his arm, nails digging into his flesh and he swings his gaze from her face back to the fence.

“Oh my god Daryl,” she says, not even trying to keep her voice low, not even attempting any kind of stealth anymore. “Oh my god.”

He sees it now. A second man with a familiar gait joining the first. Hair curling over his collar and a beard so bushy he could hide the fucking military in there if he wanted.

_(“Your face is losing the war.”)_

And before he can stop her, she's running, pulling Bo along with her. And then he's running too. Chasing after them, after her, his home, his family.

He can hear her shouting, voice high and strained. “Rick! Rick!”

And behind her he's calling “Beth! Beth!”

And the two men turn as one towards the fence, guns raised. 

For a wild moment he thinks they'll shoot. That Rick won't recognise her, that he’ll act on instinct and ask questions later. That she’ll crumble to the ground with a bullet in her brain and the world will bleed out in front of him. 

But then he hears Rick’s voice, sees him put a hand on the walrus man’s arm.

“Beth?” He sounds confused, uncertain and then all of a sudden he doesn't anymore. Because he's also shouting her name, running along the fence towards the gates, yelling at someone to turn on the lights, to open the gates.

And fuck but she's fast, legs pumping hard as she increases the distance from him, as she throws herself towards this place, this _Terminus_ , once only a name on a sign, now a reality. As she throws herself towards this place and away from him.

The lights go on. Big and bright, bathing her and Bo in a white static glow. She stops. Turns to look back at him chasing after her, her face lit up with a smile more ravishing than any he's ever seen.

“They're here Daryl,” she says. “Oh my god. They're here.”

And then she turns again, running towards the light, disappearing through the gate, under a sign that says “Terminus”.

***

She's sick again. He can hear her in the bathroom. He should go. Should hold her hair back, wipe her brow.

There are many things she's not saying, grief she's allowing to poison her. Rosita says that's why she's so sick but he doesn't believe that. It frightens him though. This new Maggie. This hardness she has. Like she's so caught up in surviving, she's forgotten living. 

He loves her. God he loves her so much. But there are things he just can't understand about her. And that scares him.

He hears her hurling again and pushes himself off the bed. He's not sure how long things can stay like this. How long this fragile peace will last. But for now he can hold her hair back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Beth sings is Nick Cave's "The Ship Song".
> 
> Also, I know I have fiddled a little with the prison layout.


End file.
